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London A Social and Cultural History 1550 1750 First
Edition Robert O. Bucholz Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Robert O. Bucholz, Joseph P. Ward
ISBN(s): 9780521896528, 0521896525
Edition: First Edition
File Details: PDF, 18.24 MB
Year: 2012
Language: english
London: A Social and Cultural History, 1550–1750

Between 1550 and 1750, London became the greatest city in Europe and one of the
most vibrant economic and cultural centers in the world. This book is a history
of London during this crucial period of its rise to worldwide prominence, during
which it dominated the economic, political, social, and cultural life of the British
Isles as never before nor since. London: A Social and Cultural History, 1550–1750
incorporates the best recent work in urban history, accounts by contemporary
Londoners and tourists, and fictional works featuring the city to trace London’s
rise and explore its role as a harbinger of modernity as well as how its citizens
coped with those achievements. It covers the full range of life in London, from
the splendid galleries of Whitehall to the damp and sooty alleyways of the East
End. Along the way, readers will brave the dangers of plague and fire, witness
the spectacles of the Lord Mayor’s Pageant and the hangings at Tyburn, and take
refreshment in the city’s pleasure gardens, coffeehouses, and taverns.

Robert O. Bucholz is Professor of History at Loyola University in Chicago. He is

the coauthor (with Newton Key) of Early-Modern England 1485–1714: A Narrative
History (2nd ed., 2009) and Sources and Debates in English History 1485–1714
(2nd ed., 2009) and the coeditor (with Carol Levin) of Queens and Power in
Medieval and Early Modern England (2009).

Joseph P. Ward is Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of History

at the University of Mississippi. He is the author of Metropolitan Communities:
Trade Guilds, Identity, and Change in Early Modern London (1997) and is the
editor or coeditor of several other scholarly books.
L ondon
A Social and Cultural History,
1550–1750

Robert O. Bucholz
Loyola University
Joseph P. Ward
University of Mississippi
cambridge university press
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Cambridge University Press
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Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521896528


C Robert O. Bucholz and Joseph P. Ward 2012

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published 2012

Printed in the United States of America

A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Bucholz, R. O., 1958–
London : a social and cultural history, 1550–1750 / Robert Bucholz, Joseph Ward.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
isbn 978-0-521-89652-8 (hardback)
1. London (England) – Social conditions. 2. London (England) – Social life and
customs. 3. London (England) – Economic conditions. 4. London (England) –
Civilization. I. Ward, Joseph. II. Title.
hn398.l7b83 2013
942.1–dc23 2011050687

isbn 978-0-521-89652-8 Hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of urls
for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not
guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
To our students
Contents

List of Illustrations and Maps page ix

List of Abbreviations and Conventions xiii
Acknowledgments xv
Introduction: London’s Importance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1 London in 1550 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
2 The Socioeconomic Base . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
3 Royal and Civic London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
4 Fine and Performed Arts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
5 The Public Sphere and Popular Culture . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
6 The People on the Margins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
7 Riot and Rebellion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268
8 Plague and Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
Conclusion: London in 1750 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
Notes 369
Further Reading 381
Index 393

vii
List of Illustrations and Maps

Illustrations and maps follow page xvi.

Illustrations

1.1 C. J. Visscher (1587–1652), panoramic view of London from

the south bank, 1616, London Metropolitan Archives.
1.2 Leonard Knyff (1650–1722), south view of the Tower of
London, engraving executed c. 1700, London Metropolitan
Archives.
1.3 Robert West (d. 1770), northeast prospect of St. Olave, Hart
Street, 1736, London Metropolitan Archives.
1.4 John Thomas Smith (1766–1833), The Old House, Grub
Street, London, 1791, Bridgeman Art Library.
1.5 British School (c. 1660), The Common Cryes of London,
British Museum.
1.6 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), interior view of the Royal
Exchange, c. 1660, London Metropolitan Archives.
1.7 William Herbert (1772–1851) and Robert Wilkinson
(fl. 1785–1825), Procession of Marie d’Medici along
Cheapside, 1638, 1809, Bridgeman Art Library.
1.8 Anon., front view of the Guildhall, etching c. 1700, London
Metropolitan Archives.
1.9 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), south elevation of St. Paul’s
Cathedral, etching executed 1818, London Metropolitan Archives.
1.10 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), interior view of St. Paul’s
Cathedral’s east end, c. 1656, London Metropolitan Archives.

ix
x List of Illustrations and Maps

1.11 Anon., view of Covent Garden from the south, engraving

executed c. 1720, London Metropolitan Archives.
1.12 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), view of the Palace of
Westminster and Westminster Abbey, 1647, London
Metropolitan Archives.
2.1 L. P. Boitard (fl. 1733–1767), “The Imports of Great Britain
from France,” etching executed in 1757, London
Metropolitan Archives.
3.1 Leonard Knyff (1650–1722), A Bird’s Eye View of Whitehall
Palace, c. 1695, Bridgeman Art Library.
3.2 Attr. to Hendrick Danckerts (c. 1625–1680), Whitehall
Palace and St. James’s Park, Bridgeman Art Library.
3.3 Marie d’Medici’s drawing room, from M. (Jean-Puget) de
La Serre (c. 1600–1665), Histoire de l’entrée de la reyne mère
du roy tres Chrestien, dans la Grande-Brétaigne (1639),
HOLLIS 009628756, Houghton Library, Harvard University.
3.4 After Lucas de Heere (1534–1584), Lord Mayor, Aldermen
and liverymen, Bridgeman Art Library.
4.1 C. J. Visscher (1587–1652), the Globe Theatre, detail from
an engraving, 1616, Bridgeman Art Library.
4.2 English School (seventeenth century), the Swan Theatre,
Southwark, Bridgeman Art Library.
4.3 English School (nineteenth century), interior of the Duke’s
Theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields during the reign of King
Charles II, 1809, Bridgeman Art Library.
5.1 The Daily Courant, March 11, 1702, The Image Works.
5.2 John Chessell Buckler (1793–1894), view of the Tabard Inn
on Borough High Street, Southwark, 1827, London
Metropolitan Archives.
5.3 William Hogarth (1697–1764), “Beer Street,” 1751, London
Metropolitan Archives.
5.4 William Hogarth (1697–1764), “Gin Lane,” 1751, London
Metropolitan Archives.
5.5 British School (c. 1650–c. 1750), interior of a London
Coffeehouse, British Museum.
5.6 Samuel Wale (1721–1786), view of Vauxhall Gardens,
etching executed c. 1751, London Metropolitan Archives.
5.7 William Hogarth (1697–1764), Innocence Betrayed, plate I
of “A Harlot’s Progress,” 1732, London Metropolitan Archives.
List of Illustrations and Maps xi

6.1 William Hogarth (1697–1764), The Industrious ’Prentice

Out of His Time, plate VI from “Industry and Idleness,”
1747, Bridgeman Art Library.
6.2 Nathaniel Parr (1723–1751), Admission of Children to the
Foundling Hospital, 1749, Bridgeman Art Library.
6.3 Thomas Rowlandson (1756–1827), Trial in Progress at the
Old Bailey, 1809, Bridgeman Art Library.
6.4 William Hogarth (1697–1764), The Idle ’Prentice Executed
at Tyburn, plate XI of “Industry and Idleness,” 1747,
London Metropolitan Archives.
7.1 L. P. Boitard (fl. 1733–1767), “The Sailor’s revenge . . . ,”
etching executed 1749, London Metropolitan Archives.
8.1 John Dunstall (d. 1693), the Great Plague of London in
1665, Bridgeman Art Library.
8.2 Great Fire of London, Dutch School (seventeenth century),
Bridgeman Art Library.
8.3 Wenceslaus Hollar (1607–1677), map of the City of London
after the Great Fire, 1666, London Metropolitan
Archives.
8.4 Anon., view of Monument’s west side, etching c. 1700,
London Metropolitan Archives.
8.5 Sir Christopher Wren (1632–1723), plan for the rebuilding of
the City of London, 1666, London Metropolitan Archives.
8.6 John Evelyn (1620–1706), plan for the rebuilding of the City
of London, 1666, London Metropolitan Archives.
8.7 Frederick Nash (1782–1856), interior view of St. James’s
Piccadilly, 1806, London Metropolitan Archives.
8.8 Canaletto (1697–1768), St. Paul’s Cathedral, 1754,
Bridgeman Art Library.
c.1 Canaletto (1697–1768), view of the City of London from the
north, engraving executed 1794, London Metropolitan Archives.
c.2 John Bethell, two houses in Queen Anne’s Gate,
Westminster, early eighteenth century (photo), Bridgeman
Art Library.
c.3 T. Rowlandson (1756–1827) and A. C. Pugin (1769–1832),
Bank of England, Great Hall, 1809, Bridgeman Art Library.
c.4 William Hogarth (1697–1764), The Rake in Bedlam, plate
VII from “A Rake’s Progress,” 1763, Bridgeman Art Library.
c.5 Anon., interior view of the choir of St. Paul’s Cathedral,
etching executed c. 1750, London Metropolitan Archives.
xii List of Illustrations and Maps

c.6 Anon., view of Temple Bar, etching executed c. 1700,

London Metropolitan Archives.
c.7 Johannes Kip (1653–1721), panoramic view of London from
Buckingham Palace, 1720, London Metropolitan Archives.
c.8 Anon., view of the Foundling Hospital, etching executed
c. 1750, London Metropolitan Archives.
c.9 English School (eighteenth century), Grosvenor Square,
1754, Bridgeman Art Library.
c.10 Thomas Bowles (1690–1767), view of St. James’s Palace and
Pall Mall, 1753, London Metropolitan Archives.
c.11 Marco Ricci (1676–1730), view of the Mall and St. James’s
Park, c. 1710, Bridgeman Art Library.
c.12 Canaletto (1697–1768), Ranelagh Gardens, the interior of
the Rotunda, c. 1751, Bridgeman Art Library.
c.13 Canaletto (1697–1768), London seen through an arch of
Westminster Bridge, 1746–1747, Bridgeman Art Library.

Maps

1 The Thames below London Bridge.

2 London in 1550.
3 Whitehall in 1670.
4 London in 1750.
List of Abbreviations and Conventions

DC: The Daily Courant, 34 vols. (1702–35).

ED: The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. De Beer, 5 vols. (Oxford, 1955).
LE: The London Encyclopaedia, ed. B. Weinreb, C. Hibbert, J. Keay, and
J. Keay, 3rd ed. (2010).
LG: The London Gazette (1665+).
NDNB: The New Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, ed. C. Matthew,
B. Harrison, and L. Goldman (2004).
PD: The Diary of Samuel Pepys, ed. R. Latham and W. Matthews, 11 vols.
(Berkeley, 1970–83).
TNA: The National Archives (formerly Public Record Office), Kew.

NB: Here, City and City of London refer to the area governed by the lord mayor
and Court of Aldermen, mostly but not entirely within the ancient walls. The
uncapitalized city and metropolis refer to greater London, including the City,
Westminster, unincorporated Southwark, and the coterminous parishes beyond
the walls.

Where known, the birth and death dates of persons named in the text are given
in parentheses after their names. Unless otherwise noted, the dates given after the
names of rulers (including popes) are their regnal years.
Spelling in quotations is in the original form except where changes are required
for the sake of clarity.

xiii
Acknowledgments

This book originated from a suggestion by Bob Bucholz’s undergraduate

supervisor, Daniel Baugh, in the fall of 1986, that he might want to prepare
a seminar course on early modern London to add to his teaching portfolio.
First offered at Cornell in the spring of 1988, the course migrated with
Bob to Loyola, Chicago, when he assumed his present position there.
In the meantime, Joe Ward had begun his studies in the economic and
social role of the London livery companies with Paul Seaver at Stanford.
Beatrice Rehl from Cambridge University Press then suggested turning
the fruits of that teaching and scholarship into a book. This being a work
of synthesis, the authors are utterly beholden to the work of many fine
scholars of London, whose names appear all too briefly in the notes. They
would particularly like to acknowledge their debt to two magisterial works,
Stephen Inwood’s History of London and The London Encyclopaedia
compiled by Ben Weinreb and Christopher Hibbert, revised by Julia and
John Keay, trusted companions in our trek through the metropolis, whose
influence on the final product will be obvious. We owe another great debt
to our home institutions, Loyola University, Chicago, and the University
of Mississippi, for purchasing indispensable databases like the Burney
Collection of Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century English Newspapers,
Early English Books Online, Eighteenth-Century Collections Online, and
The Making of the Modern World; providing funding necessary to support
the purchase of rights for images; and in Bob’s case, granting a semester’s
leave from teaching.
Perhaps above all, this work has benefited incalculably from the input
of our students, both graduate and especially undergraduate in Bob’s
“History 319: London Life and Culture” class over the past 25 years. Bob
and Joe would also particularly like to acknowledge with thanks Bob’s

xv
xvi Acknowledgments

faithful London host and walking companion, Michael Cook, as well

as Regina Buccola, Rob Butler, Caryn Chaden, Patricia Clemente,
Kerry Cochrane, David Dennis, Andrew Donnelly, Mary Donnelly,
John Donoghue, James Dunn, Tracy Foxworth, Timothy Gilfoyle, Joel
Gillaspie, Thomas Greene, Jo Hays, Elizabeth Hermick, Stephen Jeffries,
Christopher Johns, Scott Johnson, Theodore Karamanski, Newton Key,
Brian Lavelle, Carole Levin, Michael Leyden, Arthur Lurigio, Gerard
McDonald, Leanna McLaughlin, Eileen McMahon, Krystina Mendoza,
Shana Meyer, Marcy Millar, Oliver Miller, Carol Peebles, Jeannette Pierce,
Julian Putkowski, Thomas Ridgedell, Kyle Roberts, Sir John and Lady
Frances Sainty, Antonia Savarese, Claire Schen, David Starkey, Alan
Turner, Victoria Uecker, Albert Vogt, Steve Wallman, the late Patrick
Woodland, and above all, Laurie Bucholz and Sue Grayzel for criticism,
correction, help, and encouragement.
Illustrations
1.1. C. J. Visscher (1587–1652), panoramic view of London from the south bank, 1616,
London Metropolitan Archives.

1.2. Leonard Knyff (1650–1722), south view of the Tower of London, engraving executed
c. 1700, London Metropolitan Archives.
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “I kind of envied you your fat—I mean your muscular bulk, Sid—
last winter,” answered Toby. “You could fall flat on the ice without
hurting yourself. You just kind of bounced up and down a few times
and didn’t mind it. When I fell I felt it!”
“Never mind about me bouncing,” said Sid good-naturedly, with a
grin. “I got around the ice a heap faster than some of the chaps at
that. But about football, Toby——”
“I haven’t got time for it, Sid; that’s another thing. I’ve got to put
my nose to the grindstone, I guess, this year.”
“Well, haven’t I? Rather! But football won’t cut in on studying—
much. Anyway, a fellow studies better for being out-of-doors and
getting plenty of exercise and——”
“Yes, but I can be outdoors without playing football, Sid.”
“Gee, you’re the original little Excuse-Me! Well so be it. After all,
some one’s got to stay out of it and be audience, and from the looks
of things right now, Toby, you’re the only fellow left to sit in the
grandstand and cheer us on to victory. Look at the gang coming
down! There’s a fellow I want to see. So long! Better change your
mind, though!”
Arnold came back for a minute and then left in answer to the
plaintive squawking of a horn from farther along the side of the field.
Fully eighty youths of assorted ages and sizes gathered about the
new coach and the hubbub was stilled as the small man in the blue
knitted jacket began to speak. Toby could hear an occasional word,
but not enough to make sense, and, since it was no concern of his,
he turned toward the grandstand and climbed up into the grateful
shade. Forty or fifty others had already scattered themselves about
the seats in couples or groups, most of them munching peanuts or
popcorn bars, ready to be amused if amusement required no
exertion on their parts. A lazy way to spend a perfectly good
afternoon, reflected Toby. He wished he hadn’t let Arnold persuade
him to come, but, being here, he lacked energy for the hot uphill
walk back to the dormitory. He would stay awhile, he told himself; at
least until the afternoon had cooled a little.
There was a salvo of polite handclapping from the group within
sound of the coach’s voice and it broke up. Andy Ryan, the trainer,
emptied a canvas bag of trickling footballs and they were pounced
on and borne away to various parts of the field. The big group
became half a dozen smaller ones. It was only “kindergarten stuff”
to-day, even for the veterans; passing and falling and starting; not
very interesting from the viewpoint of candidate or audience. Toby
located Arnold working with a squad under big Jim Rose. Arn was,
as Toby knew, pretty soft after a fairly lazy summer, and the boy in
the shade of the big stand smiled unfeelingly as he saw his chum
straighten himself slowly in deference to protesting muscles.
“He will be good and sore to-night,” thought Toby. “Sailing a boat
all summer doesn’t keep a football man in very good trim, I guess!”
After that he lost interest in the scene before him, and, his
somewhat battered straw hat on one knee and the lazy breeze
drying his damp hair, let his thoughts carry him back to Greenhaven
and the folks in the little white cottage on Harbor Road. It would be
very pleasant there to-day on the vine-shaded steps, with the harbor
and the white sails before him and the cheery click-clock of the
caulking iron and mallet and the busy pip-pup, pip-pup of the
gasoline engine sounding across from the boat yard. Better still,
though, would it be to lie in the stern of a boat, main-sheet in hand,
and slip merrily out past the island to where, even to-day, the white-
caps would be dancing on the sunlit surface of the bay. He was
getting the least bit homesick when the sound of approaching steps
brought his wandering thoughts back. Climbing the aisle was a
somewhat thin, carelessly dressed youth. His head was bent and so
Toby couldn’t see his face well, but there was something dimly
familiar about the figure. Toby wondered why, with several hundred
empty seats to choose from, the boy, whoever he was, had to come
stamping up here. He sighed and changed his position and was
relapsing into his thoughts again when he saw to his annoyance that
the approaching youth had stopped at the end of his row, two seats
distant. Toby’s gaze lifted curiously to the boy’s face. Perhaps it was
more the two strips of rather soiled surgeon’s plaster adorning the
chap’s upper lip than the features that led Toby to recognize him.
Mentally, Toby groaned. Aloud, trying to make his voice sound
decently friendly, he said: “Hello! Well, how’s it going?”
 CHAPTER IV
G. W. TUBB

“H ello,” answered the other gruffly.

To Toby’s further annoyance he slid into the end seat, as he
did so producing a folded but rather crumpled handkerchief from a
pocket. This he held across to Toby.
“’Tain’t very clean,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.”
“What is it?” asked Toby, accepting it doubtfully. “Oh, I see; my
handkerchief. You needn’t have bothered. I told you to throw it
away. Still, much obliged.” It had quite evidently been washed by the
boy himself and ironed by the simple expedient of laying it while wet
on some smooth surface, perhaps a windowpane. Faint brownish
stains had defied the efforts of the amateur laundryman. Toby
dropped it into a pocket, aware of the close and apparently hostile
stare of the other. “Much obliged,” he repeated vaguely, for want of
anything better to say.
“’At’s all right,” answered the other. “Too good a handkerchief to
throw away.” An awkward silence followed. Toby wished the youth
would take himself off, but that idea was apparently far from the
latter’s mind. Instead, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his
trousers, stretched his thin legs before him and scowled down at the
busy scene. He looked to be about fifteen, Toby thought. His
features were not bad in themselves, but his expression was sullen
and dissatisfied and his complexion was too much the color of putty
to be pleasant to look at. Also, his skin didn’t seem clean and
healthy. The same was true of the youth as a whole. Toby thought a
thorough application of hot water and soap would improve him a
whole lot, at least externally. His clothes were of good enough
material and fairly new. But they were full of creases and needed
brushing. His shoes were scratched at the toes and would have been
better for dressing and polishing. His collar was cleaner than
yesterday, but creased and rumpled, and the blue four-in-hand scarf
needed tightening. On the whole, this chap was not a prepossessing
member of Yardley Hall society, and Toby had no desire to increase
the acquaintance. But so long as he was here some sort of
conversation seemed in order, and so, breaking the silence:
“How’s the cut getting on?” Toby asked.
“All right,” the other answered without turning his head. Then:
“Say,” he challenged.
“Yes?”
“Your name’s Tucker, ain’t it?”
“Yes. What’s yours, by the way?” Toby was sorry he had asked as
soon as the question was out.
“Tubb,” was the answer, “George Tubb.” There was a pause. Then,
defiantly: “Middle name’s William. Go on and say it!”
“Say it? Why, George William Tubb,” responded Toby obligingly.
The other turned and viewed him suspiciously. Then he grunted.
“Guess you don’t get it,” he muttered. “George W. Tubb, see?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” answered Toby
indifferently.
“You would if you saw it written,” said Mr. Tubb gloomily.
“Everybody does.” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “‘What’s the W.
stand for? Wash?’ Gee, I’m sick of it. I tried to tell the guy in the
office where you get registered that my middle name was Harris, but
he said it couldn’t be that and begin with W. It’ll be W. in the
catalogue, so you might as well know it now. Well, I’ve been ‘Wash-
tub’ ever since I was a foot high, so I guess it don’t matter here!”
“What’s the difference?” asked Toby. “One nickname’s as good as
another, isn’t it? Names don’t matter.”
 “Some don’t. I suppose they call you ‘Red’ or ‘Carrot’ or something
like that. I wouldn’t mind——”
“Hold on, Tubb!” Toby’s voice dropped a note. “No one calls me
what you said. Some fellows have tried to, but they changed their
minds. Understand?”
Tubb grinned. “Don’t like it, eh? Thought you said names didn’t
matter! Well, I don’t like my nickname any more than you like yours;
I mean what fellows started to call you.” The grin faded and Tubb’s
countenance became overcast again with the settled expression of
sullenness. “Anyway, what they call me here doesn’t cut any ice. I
won’t be here long.”
“How’s that?” asked Toby, trying to make his question sound
politely interested.
“I’m going to beat it. This ain’t any kind of a school for me, Tucker.
Gee, what would I do here? Look at the gang of highbrows and
mamma’s darlings! They’d stand for me about two days. I know the
sort. Some of ’em come to our town in summer. Think they ever
have anything to do with us town guys? Not on your life! We’re too
common for ’em, the dear little Willie Boys!”
“Why did you come here then?” asked Toby coldly.
“It was Pop’s idea,” replied Tubb. “Aunt Sarah died last spring out
in Michigan and she left Pop some money. The will said some of it
was to go for my schooling. I wanted to go to Huckins’s, in
Logansport. Know it? It’s an all-right school and two or three fellows
from my town go there. It don’t cost much, either. But Pop was set
on this dive. About ten years ago Pop was in partnership with a man
named Mullins in the logging business, and this Mullins had a boy
who went to school here. Pop thought a lot of the Mullinses, and
when he learned about Aunt Sarah’s will he said right off I was to go
here. He got the high school principal to coach me all summer. I
kept telling him I wouldn’t like it here, kept telling him it wasn’t any
place for a storekeeper’s son, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he’d
lick the hide off me if I didn’t pass the examinations, and I knew he
would. So I passed. He’ll lick me if I go back home, too, so I’ve got
to go and get me a job somewhere. Guess I’ll enlist in the Navy. I’ll
tell ’em I’m seventeen. They don’t care. I know a fellow got in when
he was a couple of months younger than I am.”
Toby viewed Tubb distastefully during a brief silence. Then:
“Seems to me,” he said slowly and emphatically, “the Navy is just the
place for you, Tubb!”
“Sure,” began the other. Then something in Toby’s tone made him
pause and view the other suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
he demanded.
“Just what I said. What you need is discipline, Tubb, and a whole
lot of it, and you’ll get it in the Navy. And I wish them joy of you!”
Toby arose and crowded past to the aisle.
“Ah, go to thunder!” snarled Tubb. “You’re like all the rest of them,
ain’t you? Silk-sox! Who cares what you think? Say, I hope you ain’t
caught anything, sitting alongside me like that!”
There was more, but Toby didn’t hear it. Going down the aisle he
was uncomfortably conscious of the curious looks bent on him by
the occupants of the nearer seats who had been aroused from their
sleepy occupation of following the practice by Tubb’s strident voice.
He was glad when he had reached the ground and turned the corner
of the stand. Passing between the busy tennis courts, he reflected
that befriending strangers didn’t work out very satisfactorily for him.
After this, he decided, smiling whimsically, fellows might drown or be
cut to pieces for all the help he would offer!
Just before supper, when Arnold came back to Number 12, a trifle
washed-out looking and not moving very spryly, Toby narrated the
outcome of the incident in the train. By this time he was able to tell
of the meeting with George W. Tubb with a touch of humor and
Arnold listened amusedly, stretched at length on the window-seat.
“You’re right, Toby, the Navy’s just the place for friend Tubbs.”
“Tubb,” corrected Toby. “There’s only one of him, praise be!”
 “We’re getting some strange freaks here of late, anyway,” reflected
Arnold. “There were several on the field this afternoon. Well, it takes
all sorts to make a world—or a football team! Say, T. Tucker, the new
coach is a peach. Fan’s crazy about him, and so are the others. Did
you hear the song-and-dance he gave us before practice? Some
sane and sensible little speech, that was.”
“What did he say?” asked Toby.
“We-ell,” Arnold hesitated, “I don’t know that he said anything
much different from what all coaches say at the start of the season.
It was more the way he said it, I guess. Of course he insisted rather
painfully on hard work, and told us what a fine, intelligent-looking lot
we were.”
“Must be nearsighted,” murmured Toby.
“And said something nice about Fan. Oh, it was much the usual
speech, only—well, it did sound different, somehow. One thing he
did say, though, T. Tucker, may interest you.”
“You may proceed, Mr. Deering.”
“He said he wanted every fellow in school who had the possible
making of a football player in him to report not later than Monday,
and that if they didn’t volunteer he’d draft them! That ought to give
you something to think about, old thing.”
“Meaning that I have somewhere concealed about me the making
of a football player?” asked Toby.
“Exactly. You’d better keep out of Lyle’s way or he will grab you.”
After a moment Toby, who had armed himself with towel and
soap-dish preparatory to a trip to the lavatory, moved to the door
but paused with his hand on the knob. “He can’t draft me, Arn,” he
said.
“Why can’t he, I’d like to know?”
“Because I’m going out for the Second to-morrow.”
“What! Honest? When—How——”
But Toby had closed the door behind him.
 CHAPTER V
WITH THE SECOND

O f recent years the custom of having separate organizations for

the First and Second Teams from the very outset of the season
had obtained at Yardley. In the old days the Second was made up,
perhaps a fortnight after the school year had started, of players who
were not needed on the First and those who, for one reason or
another, were ineligible for it. As a result, the Second as an
adversary for the First, or School, Team, never amounted to much
until the season was half gone. Under the new system the Second
came into being two or three days after the start of the fall term,
with a coaching staff, small but sufficient, of its own, a captain
elected the preceding year and a general organization similar to that
of the First save as to size. The coach was inevitably some
enthusiastic and patriotic fellow who had recently graduated and
who gave his services free. At times—whenever possible, in fact—he
summoned other graduates to his assistance. If he was a wise
coach, he never had more than one assistant at a time. If he was
unwise, he had—and chaos reigned.
This year the coach was Mr. Burtis. Burtis had, in his time, been a
remarkable half-back and an equally remarkable kicker, both in
preparatory school and college. He had left college last spring and
was, consequently, but twenty-one or twenty-two years of age.
Because Yardley Hall history accorded him much fame as a player
and leader, a great deal was expected of him. Toby’s first look at
Kendall Burtis produced more surprise than anything else. He found
himself wondering how any man could be as utterly homely as the
coach and yet look as attractive, how any one could have so many
angles in his body and yet be so free from awkwardness! Burtis was
rather large, ruggedly built, square of frame. His mouth was broad,
his nose somewhat pug, his hair nondescript in hue. Yet in spite of
these things the face was pleasing and attractive. Perhaps the very
dark gray eyes, clear and steady and honest, were accountable. Or it
may be that the mouth expressed kindliness. At all events, after that
first instant of surprise and confusion, Toby liked the new coach
immensely. Whether the new coach liked Toby I can’t say. It is quite
probable that he didn’t see him, for Toby was only one of some
forty-eight fellows drawn up in a group on the edge of the second
diamond that Saturday afternoon.
Toby wondered what words of wisdom would fall from that
generously-proportioned mouth, and he craned his head over Sid
Creel’s shoulder that he might hear them all. What he did hear and
see were hardly worth the exertion. Coach Burtis, a new football
snuggled in his left elbow and his right hand thrust into a pocket of
an old pair of gray trousers, looked pleasantly over the little throng
for a moment. Then: “Well,” he said genially. “It looks like we had
material for a good team here. Let’s get busy!”
That was all. Toby felt a trifle neglected and disappointed. But he
had to acknowledge that perhaps getting busy was as important as
listening to a speech. After that, for more than an hour and a half,
he had very little opportunity for feeling neglected. There were
moments when he wished he might. Coach and captain were both
believers in hard work, and both buckled down resolutely to the task
ahead of them. More than half the material was inexperienced,
much of what remained was useless, and only some twelve or
fourteen candidates combined experience with ability. To-day’s work
was the veriest drudgery, and, although occasional halts were called,
yet the September sun did unkind things to many. Toby, rather to his
surprise, discovered that he was not nearly so hard and fit as he had
thought. After ten minutes of passing and falling, he perspired from
every pore, and ere the afternoon’s practice was finished, he felt
very much like a wet rag. Also, he had somehow managed to
develop a painful crick in his left shoulder, close to his neck. And the
muscles in the backs of his legs felt as if some one had pounded
them with a board. On the whole, he was far less enthusiastic than
he had been at three o’clock, and even the shower failed of much
reaction. Dragging a tired body from the gymnasium across the yard
to Whitson, he wondered by just what mental process he had the
day before arrived at the decision to play football!
As a matter of fact, there had been, so far as he could recall, no
mental process at all. Arnold had threatened him with the First Team
draft and almost without reflection he had announced that he was
going out for the Second! Ten minutes before, or even three, he had
had no more idea of a football career than he had had of jumping
from the window. Well, reflected Toby ruefully, it just showed that
you couldn’t be too careful of impulses!
He supposed that Sid Creel was mainly responsible for these
aching muscles. He had resolutely refused to be persuaded by Sid’s
arguments, and yet, apparently, he had been! Or else he had done it
just to surprise Arnold. Maybe that was it. If it was, it was a mighty
poor reason! Any amount of surprise on the part of Arnold wasn’t
worth the soreness of those leg muscles! He groaned as he started
up the stairs, but nearing the door of Number 12, he assumed a
carefree and nonchalant air designed to deceive Arnold in case that
youth was within.
He wasn’t, though, and Toby was thankful. It gave him a chance
to lie down on the window seat, groaning as much as he pleased
while doing it, without arousing curiosity. He dropped his cap—he
had put by the straw hat—on the nearest object and divested
himself of an unnecessary coat. It was while he was getting rid of
the latter article of apparel that his eyes fell on an envelope propped
against the base of the droplight on his side of the table. It bore his
name in funny up-and-down characters, like the writing of a boy of
ten, and the postmark showed that it was mailed in Wissining that
morning. Of course, it might be only an invitation to deal at one of
the few local stores, but there was evidence against that premise;
such as the lack of any address in the corner, the queer writing and
a brownish smudge along the flap suggesting that unclean hands
had sealed the envelope. He bore it to the window seat, settled
himself cautiously against the pile of cushions, stretched his aching
legs out and tore open the letter. A single sheet of blue-ruled paper
emerged. Toby read it frowningly.

Dear Tucker: I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon.

I didn’t mean it because you are the only fellow at this
place who has been decent towards me since I came
here. I got mad and I wish I hadn’t and I’m sorry. I
wish you’d forgive me, please, Tucker. I guess what
you said was true about the Navy, I mean, and maybe
I’ll do like I said. Every one here shows plain that I am
not wanted at this school and I guess the sooner I
beat it the better. If more fellows were like you maybe
I could stick it out. I am not afraid of the studies. It is
not that, but the fellows here are not my kind I
suppose. You are not either, but you acted like you did
not think much about that. I am just writing this
because you were decent to me in the train that day,
more than any other fellow has been, and I do not
want you to think I am no good at all, with no
gratitude. If I do not see you again, good-by and good
luck, from Yours Truly, Geo. W. Tubb.

Toward the end of the queer epistle Toby’s frown disappeared, and
when he had read it once he read it again. After that he laid it down
and looked out over the woods below the railroad cut, at the foot of
the Prospect, and so to the blue expanse of Long Island Sound. A
sail boat dipped slowly along the shore and afar out a cocky tug was
leading a draggled parade of three coal barges. Presently the frown
crept back again, and he lifted the letter, folded it and put it back in
its envelope.
“Suppose I ought to answer it,” he thought, “only, what can I say?
Tell him I don’t mind what he said, I suppose, although it happens
that I do mind. At least, I ought to. He’s a very objectionable, soggy-
minded, unclean fellow, and I don’t want any more to do with him.
Still, that doesn’t say that he isn’t having a horribly messy time here.
Of course fellows don’t take to him. He looks dirty and bad-
tempered and he talks worse than he looks. He doesn’t belong here.
Seems to realize it, too. Shows he has some sense, doesn’t it? Well,
I didn’t say he didn’t have sense. Trouble with him is he’s been left
to do as he likes too much, I guess. Bet you I know that father of
his. Severe as anything when things go wrong, and the rest of the
time doesn’t pay any attention to the kid. He didn’t say anything
about a mother or brothers or sisters. Probably there’s just the two
of them in one of those mean little towns where nothing ever
happens that’s worth while. Bet you there isn’t even a movie theater
there! Dad puts out the lamp at nine o’clock and goes to bed and
the kid has to go, too, and the only way he can have any excitement
is to sneak down the rain-spout and get into mischief! Oh, well, it’s
no affair of mine. Still, I am sort of sorry for Tubb. ‘Washtub.’ Beastly
nickname! Wonder who his adviser is. Probably hasn’t been near
him, and would only growl and be ugly if he went. Best thing can
happen to George W. Tubb is to seek pastures new.”
Toby yawned and closed his eyes. The faint breath of cool evening
air that blew in through the open window beside him made him feel
very sleepy. He would write a couple of lines to Tibb—no, Tubb—
after supper. Tell him it’s all right, and——
Toby fell asleep.
Ten minutes later he dreamed that he was falling down
innumerable flights of stairs, bounding from one to another with
ever increasing momentum. He didn’t seem concerned about the
process of falling, but he knew that when he reached the bottom, if
he ever did, there would be an awful smash! In case there shouldn’t
be enough left of him to groan then, maybe he had better do it now.
So he did, quite frightfully. And opened his eyes to find Arnold and
Frank tugging at him and laughing.
“Wake up, Toby! It isn’t true!”
 “N-no,” agreed Toby doubtfully. “But—I’m glad you stopped me
before I got to the bottom!”
“Nightmare?” asked Frank. “I have it sometimes. Get a move on.
We’re going to get supper early and beat it over to Greenburg for
the first house at the movies.”
“I don’t see any use in my spending good money to see movies,”
demurred Toby, sitting up sleepily, “when all I’ve got to do is go to
sleep and have movies of my own!”
Arnold grinned. “How did practice go?” he asked significantly.
“Fine.” Toby was quite cheerful and nonchalant. “Made me sleepy,
though, I guess.”
“Hope you’re not tired or lame or anything like that? You had such
a lot of fun ragging me yesterday, you know. Too bad if you—er——”
“Me? Oh, well, it was pretty warm, of course, but when you’re in
good hard condition——”
“What’s the matter?” asked Arnold, grinning.
“Matter? Why?”
“I thought you made a face when you stood up. My mistake, of
course!”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” declared Toby with great
dignity. “If you think that a little football practice—ouch! Gee!” He
sat down again on the window seat and rubbed his back ruefully,
while the others laughed with wicked glee.
“It won’t do, old thing! There’s no use stalling. You’re as bad as I
was yesterday, when you had the beautiful cheek to sit there and
read me a lecture on not keeping fit! Where does it hurt worst?”
“All over,” groaned Toby. “I’ll be all right after I move around a
while, though. That’s one advantage of being in fine physical
condition: you may get a bit lame but you get right over it!”
 “Isn’t he the wonderful bluffer?” asked Arnold admiringly to Frank.
“Well, go ahead and move around, old thing. It’s five minutes of, and
we want to get over there before seven.”
“Tell me one thing first,” begged Toby, squirming about from his
waist up. “Do they have cushions on the seats at the movie house?”
“Oh, yes, and they’ll give you a couple of pillows at the ticket
office if you ask for ’em,” answered Frank. “Hustle now!”
“What you tell me sounds perfectly beautiful,” said Toby sadly,
“but I’m afraid it isn’t true.”
Thereupon Arnold thrust towel and soap into his hands, Frank
held the door open and between them they pushed him, groaning
and remonstrating, into the corridor and headed him toward the
lavatory.
“It’s really an awful joke on him,” chuckled Arnold as Toby’s
lagging footsteps receded down the hall. “He thought he was as
hard as nails, and had a fine time crowing over me yesterday. Said it
took more than sailing a boat to keep a fellow in shape!”
“I guess the only way to keep fit enough for football,” said Frank,
feelingly, “is to chop trees all summer. I was just about all in last
night. How did you manage to persuade him to take up football,
anyway, Arn? I thought he was dead set against it.”
“So did I. I didn’t persuade him. I don’t know who did—or what!
He sprung it on me suddenly yesterday. I’m glad, though. I think
there’s a good football player in Toby, Frank.”
 CHAPTER VI
SIGNALS

A lthough Toby was back in Whitson before nine that evening, it is

needless to say that the note he had promised himself to write
to George Tubb did not get written. In fact Toby forgot all about it
until the next morning, when Arnold found Tubb’s letter on the floor
and asked Toby if it was anything he wanted to keep.
“No, throw it in the basket,” answered Toby. “Hold on, though!
Guess I’ll keep it. I’ve got to answer it to-day. Stick it on the table,
Arn.”
Later it got buried under a book and so during the course of a
busy day or two Toby again forgot it. He might have remembered it
on Sunday, which, as at every preparatory school in the land, was
the recognized letter-writing day of the week at Yardley, but he
didn’t. He wrote to his folks in the afternoon until Arn, who never
spent much time on his correspondence, dragged him away to the
river and a certain shining blue canoe. Then he finished the epistle
in the evening just before bedtime, and retired with a fine feeling of
duty performed. Monday witnessed a change in temperature. There
was a light frost on the ground when Toby and Arnold hurried over
to chapel, and, although the middle of the day was bright and warm,
by the time practice began on the gridirons there was enough nip in
the air to make work with the pigskin more agreeable.
Toby found himself on a squad of fellows of much his own age
and football experience—or lack of it. It didn’t seem to him that he
showed much promise of ever being better than a dub at the game,
and while he did rather enjoy the work, he was not vastly concerned
over the prospect of being dropped. He had been dropped very
promptly last fall, and he expected a similar fate this season. Of
course, he was heavier now than then, but he guessed football
required something more than weight of a fellow. Sid Creel was
playing center on another squad in signal drill that Monday
afternoon, so far as Toby could discern, conducting himself in a
highly meritorious fashion. Sid had weight and, apparently, ability,
and Toby decided that this year his good-natured perseverance was
to be rewarded.
After three quarters of an hour of “baby-play” the Second Team
candidates were summoned to the bench and Coach Burtis
announced the first scrimmage. “Who have we for center on B
Team, Harris?” he asked the trainer.
“Center? Well, there’s Galvin and that tow-headed chap over
there, Coach. And Creel. Creel’s got the build, all right. Want to try
him?”
“Yes. And Burnett and Hodgson for guards. And—what’s your
name, you chap?”
“Thorson, sir.”
“Well, Thorson, you take left tackle on B. I want another tackle
now. Who wants to play tackle? All right, I’ll take you: the fellow in
the green sweater. Now, a couple of ends, Harris. Yes, they’ll do.
Burns at quarter. Come on, Burns! And Folwell and——”
“Nelson’s played half, Mr. Burtis,” suggested Grover Beech.
“I want him on A Team. Who else is there? Fosdick? All right. And
that fellow down there, whatever his name is, for full-back. All right,
get out there, fellows! You referee, Harris, please. I’ll be ump. I want
all the rest of you chaps to follow the play closely and learn all you
can. We’ll play two ten-minute periods, Harris. Team A takes the ball
and north goal. Now then, let’s see what you fellows know about the
game!”
At first it didn’t seem that they knew very much, for signals went
wrong, fumble followed fumble and the players became occasionally
so inextricably mixed up that scrimmage had to be halted while they
were disentangled. But Coach Burtis, alternately umpire and critic,
was possessed of a vast patience, and toward the last of the first ten
minutes things went better. Team A worked down to the opponent’s
twelve yards and would have scored if the line had held. But a B
Team tackle trickled through and laid White on his back before he
was well started on a wide run, and after that Frick, quarter-back on
the attacking side, missed a try-at-goal by many yards.
A five-minute rest followed, during which the coach and the
trainer and Grover Beech lectured and criticized, and then, with
many changes in each line-up, the scrimmage began again. Toby still
decorated a bench, looking rather colorful with his red thatch
obtruding from a blue blanket. Toby had dutifully watched the efforts
of the players, but it cannot be truthfully said that he learned much.
Perhaps he was too attentive to the performance and fortunes of Sid
Creel at center on Team B. Sid appeared to be playing his position
rather well, Toby thought, although he didn’t pretend to be anything
of a judge. At least, Sid lasted longer than most fellows of his team,
returning breathless to the bench only when the last period was
more than half over. He squirmed into a place beside Toby, pulling a
blanket about his broad shoulders.
“I guess he didn’t have much on me,” Sid panted, “if he is ten
pounds heavier!”
“Who?” asked Toby.
“Watson. He didn’t get past me once, and I turned him twice. Did
you notice?”
“Who’s Watson? Their center?”
“Yes. If they’d given us a couple of decent guards we’d have put it
all over that bunch. Burnett isn’t so bad, but Hodgson laid down
every time any one looked at him! You didn’t get in, did you? What
are you trying for?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering, Sid.”
 “I mean what position.”
“How do I know? End, I suppose. Or half. Search me!”
“Well, you’d better make up your mind. When Coach yells for an
end the next time, sing out and race on there. That’s the only way
you’ll get a chance. Beat the other fellow to it, Toby.”
“I’d be afraid he’d take me,” answered Toby dryly. “I don’t know
any more about playing end than—than you do center!”
Sid grinned. “You watch me, Toby. I’m going to fade Watson
before this season’s much older, my child. Honest, I really believe
I’ve got a chance to stick this year. Of course, it’s a bit early yet, but
——”
“What’s he yelling?” interrupted Toby. Play had paused, a youth
was limping to the side-line and Coach Burtis was shouting toward
the bench.
“Quarter,” said Sid. He looked left and right along the benches.
Here and there a player squirmed indecisively but none appeared to
have enough courage to offer his services. “Guess all the quarters
are used up,” mused Sid.
Trainer Harris added his voice to the coach’s. “Aren’t there any
quarter-backs over there? Get a move on, somebody! Any of you!”
“Coming!” shouted Toby, throwing aside his blanket and jumping
to his feet.
“He said quarter, you idiot!” hissed Sid. “You aren’t a quarter!”
“How do you know?” laughed Toby. “I don’t!”
“All right, this way,” greeted the Coach, as Toby raced on. “What’s
the name?”
“Tucker, sir.”
“Ever played quarter, Tucker?”
“No, sir.”
 “Well, then what the mischief——”
“Trainer said any of us, sir.”
Mr. Burtis frowned, smiled and nodded shortly. “Go ahead then.
Let’s see what you can do. Know the signals?”
“Yes, sir.” Toby was pretty certain that he had forgotten them, but
it wouldn’t do to say so! Turning, he caught the amused smile of
Captain Beech. Toby dropped the lid of his left eye gravely and
stepped to position behind center.
“Look what you’re doing, Tucker,” warned the coach. “Third down
and four to go.” There was amusement in his tone and Toby flushed.
Third down and four, he thought hurriedly. That meant that a line
play wasn’t the thing. What was, then? He hesitated and glanced
doubtfully at the backs. The trainer blew his whistle. Something had
to be done and done quickly. If B Team hadn’t been having luck with
A’s line there was no use trying to get four yards between tackles,
even on a third down. The teams were near the middle of the field,
and A had three men back, evidently expecting an open play. Then
why not——
“14—23—8——” Toby’s voice sounded very weak and small to
Toby. “14—23——”
“Signals! Signals!” The whole back-field was remonstrating, it
seemed! His heart sank. He had got his signals wrong! But how? No,
he was right. It was the others who were wrong!
“Signals!” he cried, scowling at the nearer of the three backs
behind him. “14—27—8—196——”
The team awoke to action. Full-back dashed headlong upon him,
took the pass and went, twisting and boring, into the mêlée. Toby
threw himself behind, triumphant. His signals had been right, just as
he had known! (It wasn’t until after practice was over that he
learned that he had changed them the second time!) The play went
through for well over three yards, the unfeasible for once proving
feasible, and B Team exulted and looked approval at Toby. Toby tried
to be modest about it, which, considering that he had called for the
play in sheer desperation, not remembering at the moment anything
else to call for, wasn’t hard! Some one, too, had walked on his face,
and that helped him toward humility.
Realizing that he had established a reputation for generalship,
Toby tried hard to live up to it, but although B did not get the
necessary eighteen inches or so on the next down, the succeeding
play failed dismally and B lost nearly all she had gained. Toby tried
to assure himself that the fault was the right half-back’s, but
something told him that an end run from balanced formation was
predestined to fail and that another time he would remember that
there was such thing as a shift! Perhaps he would have vindicated
the reputation gained from his first lucky play if the scrimmage
hadn’t ended then and there; or perhaps he would have become
exposed for the impostor he knew himself to be. At all events, Toby
welcomed the whistle heartily.
Afterwards, in the gymnasium, Grover Beech detained him on his
way from the shower. “Snappy work, Tucker,” he said, smilingly.
“Glad to see you with us.”
Toby reflected the other’s smile in somewhat sickly fashion.
“Thanks,” he answered lamely. “Of course, I didn’t know anything
about playing quarter, Beech——”
“Well, you got away with it, anyway! That’s the main thing. And
that plunge at guard when we were looking for a pass was clever
strategy.” There was a twinkle in his eye, however. Toby’s smile
broadened.
“Have a heart!” he begged. “I didn’t know whether that play was
going to right or left, Beech!”
“Well, I’m glad it went to the right,” laughed the Second Team
captain, “for if it had come my way I’d have been just as unready for
it as Weld was! Going to try for quarter, Tucker?”
“Gee, no! I’ve had all I want of it, thanks. I just did it as a sort of
joke. I’m no football player, Beech, and you’ll miss my shining
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