“You let me up!”“You let me up!”
“You let me up!”
“Promise not to start anything?”
“No!”
“Then you don’t get up. You stay right here until I tell you all about it.” Joe seated himself at the foot of the bed and glanced at the clock on the chiffonier. “You see, Foster, it was like this.”
“I don’t want to hear it! I want to get up!”
“Then give me your word to behave.”
Myron studied Joe’s unperturbed face, hesitated and gave in. “All right,” he growled. “But I’ll—I’ll get even with you yet.”
“Sure! Now then we’ll do some hustling.” For two minutes Joe was very busy with knots. “Hope these things didn’t hurt,” he said apologetically. “I tried to fix ’em so you’d be comfortable.”
“Thanks, I’m sure,” said Myron in deep sarcasm. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness!”
Joe grinned. “Well, anyway, I didn’t wake you up, kiddo, did I? Didn’t do you out of any sleep, eh? Say, the Sleeping Quince, or whatever theguy in the fairy story was called, hasn’t a thing on you, Foster. You’re the soundest little slumberer that ever pounded an ear! There you are. Now, then, slip into some duds and let’s beat it. We’ve just got time.”
The fact that the incident would never become known and make him look ridiculous made it much easier for Myron to forgive Joe for the trick. And the latter’s account of the meeting with Eldredge—Myron got it piecemeal before and after chapel—was so funny that he had to smile more than once in spite of his determination to be haughty and unrelenting. In the end he said grudgingly: “We-ell, I suppose you meant it all right, Dobbins, but it wasn’t fair. Now was it?” And Dobbins obligingly shook his head very soberly and allowed that it wasn’t. In such fashion amity was restored and peace prevailed again.
That afternoon, encountering Harry Cater on the field before practice, Myron regarded that youth keenly, looking for signs of amusement and ready to resent them. But Katie’s countenance suggested no secret diversion. Perhaps he regarded Myron with just a fraction more interest than usual, but it was quite respectful interest. There was a big cut in the football candidatesthat afternoon and when Coach Driscoll had sheathed his knife again their number had been reduced to sixty-odd. Myron survived, as he deserved to, and so, naturally, did Joe. Joe was already being talked about and more than once had heard his playing discussed and praised. Good linemen are always in demand, and this year, at Parkinson, they were more than ever welcome, for graduation had deprived the eleven of several stars since last fall.
The squads were reduced to four now, and Myron had slipped into a half-back position on the third. There was nothing certain about that position. Some days he went into practice at right half and some days at left, and sometimes he sat on the bench most of the time when scrimmaging began. He was rather resentful because his work wasn’t getting recognition. As a matter of fact, however, he was showing up no more cleverly than half a dozen other candidates for the positions. He handled the ball well, remembered signals, ran hard and fast, dodged fairly and caught punts nicely. So did Meldrum, Brown, Brounker, Vance, Robbins and one or two more. Myron’s mistake was in supposing that, because none praised him, his work wasn’t appreciated. He had an idea that neither coach nor captain reallyknew of his existence, when, as a matter of fact, he was more than once under discussion during the nightly conferences in Mr. Driscoll’s quarters.
“Promising,” was the coach’s comment one evening when the subject of half-backs was before the meeting. “Plays a nice, clean-cut game. Lacks judgment, though.”
“Handles punts well,” said Captain Mellen. “Made a corking catch yesterday. Remember when Kearns punted down to the twenty yards? That was a peach of a punt, by the way: all of fifty, wasn’t it, Ken?”
“Forty-six,” answered Farnsworth.
“That all? Anyway, this Foster chap made a heady catch, with two ends almost on him and the ball nearly over his head. He’ll round out nicely for next year, I guess.”
It was Myron’s misfortune that he had elected to try for a half-back position at a time when there was much excellent half-back material on hand. Probably he didn’t realise the fact, for he began to get more disgruntled by the end of that week and secretly accused Mr. Driscoll and Jud Mellen of “playing favourites.” Not altogether secretly, either, for he once aired his suspicions for Joe’s benefit. “There’s no chance for a chap here unless he’s known,” he said bitterly.“Maybe if I stay here two or three years longer Driscoll will discover that I’m alive. As it is, if it wasn’t for Farnsworth keeping tabs on the fellows, I could cut practice and no one would ever know it.”
“Well, I don’t know,” answered Joe judicially. “It looks to me like you were getting the same treatment the rest of ’em are getting. Some day you’ll show ’em what you can do and they’ll wake up. I guess your trouble is that you’re bucking against a lot of good backs. Take fellows like Brown and Meldrum and Vance, now. They’regood. You’ve got to hand it to them, kiddo. Corking halves, all of them. Hard to beat. But that don’t mean that you can’t beat ’em. Buckle down and go hard, Foster. The season’s young yet.”
“I’m not anxious enough,” answered Myron, “to kill myself. I dare say I can get along without playing on the team this year. And next year I’ll go somewhere where they give a fellow a fair chance, by George!”
“Well, if that’s your idea you won’t get far,” said Joe drily. “If you don’t care yourself no one’s going to care for you. A guy’s got to hustle and be in earnest to get anywhere in this world. I know that!”
“You fell into it pretty soft,” answered Myron,with a laugh that sounded none too agreeable. “There’s nothing like getting in with the right crowd, eh?”
Joe regarded him with a frown, started to speak, thought better of it and merely grunted. But after a moment he said dispassionately: “Don’t be a sore-head, Foster. It don’t get you anything but hard looks.”
“I’m no sore-head,” laughed the other carelessly. “Gee, it doesn’t mean anything in my young life to play with their old football team. I’ve captained a better team than this school will ever turn out!”
“If I was you,” replied Joe earnestly, “I’d forget about being captain of that team, kiddo, and see if I couldn’t make a first-class private of myself.”
Myron flushed. “It’s all well enough for you to—to give advice and say cute things, Dobbins, but you’ve made yourself solid with the fellows who have the say in football matters and you’re pretty sure of a place. I haven’t, and I don’t intend to. If Mellen and Cater and some of those fellows think I’m going to kow-tow to them, they’re mightily mistaken.”
“Meaning I got my chance by—what do you call it?—cultivating those fellows?” asked Joe.“You made that crack before and I let it pass, Foster, but it don’t go this time. If I’m playing on the second squad it’s because I got out there and worked like a horse, and you know it, Brother!”
Myron dropped his eyes and a long moment of silence followed. Then he said: “I was a rotter, Dobbins. I’m sorry. I guess I am a sore-head, like you said. I guess—I guess I’ll just quit and have done with it.”
Joe laughed. “All right, kiddo! We’ll start fresh. But why don’t you cut out the grouching and just play the game? What’s it to you if you don’t get into the lime-light? Ain’t it something to do what you’re put at and do it well? Say, there’s about sixty guys out there every afternoon, ain’t there? Well, how many of them do you suppose will get places on the first team? Not more than twenty-six, probably. And about twenty more will go into the scrub team. And the others will beat it and try again next year, likely. Every one can’t be a hero, Foster. Some of us have got to lug water!”
“There’s no fun in lugging water, though,” Myron objected.
“Who says so? There’s fun in doing anything if you set out to like it, kiddo. The guys whomiss the fun are those who get it into their heads that the job isn’t good enough for ’em, or that some one’s imposing on ’em. What sort of a fellow would Merriman be if he got that dope to working in his bean? He’s lugging water, all right, believe me! Living on a couple of dollars a week and working about sixteen hours a day! But he gets fun out of it, don’t he? He’s about the happiest guy around these parts, ain’t he? Mind you, Foster, I ain’t saying that a fellow’s got to besatisfiedwith just lugging water. He oughtn’t to be. He ought to be thinking about the time when he can chuck the pail and do something better. But while he is lugging water he wants to do it well and whistle at it!”
“All right,” laughed Myron, good temper restored, “I’ll keep on with the pail a while longer. Say, Dobbins, you ought to prepare for the ministry or the lecture platform. You’re going to waste yourself shovelling spruce gum!”
Joe smiled. “I’m not going to shovel spruce gum, kiddo. I’m going to be a lawyer. How’s that hit you?”
“If I’m ever arrested for murder I’ll certainly send for you!” answered Myron emphatically.
Two days later Myron received notice that his overdue furniture had arrived. For some reasonhe was not nearly so keen about it as he had been a week or more ago. And when, accompanied by Joe—he had felt the need of a practical mind in the matter of getting the things off the car and up to the dormitory and had begged Joe’s assistance—he saw how many pieces of furniture there were he was, to use his own word, flabbergasted. For his part, Joe just stared and blinked. Every piece was carefully and enormously crated, and the staring address on each was a horrible challenge. For the things were much larger than he remembered them and when he thought of the limited area of Number 17 Sohmer he gasped. The services of the Warne Warehouse Company had been called on, and three husky men were soon emptying the car while Myron and Joe sat on a baggage truck and looked on. Myron felt somewhat apologetic and shot occasional inquiring glances at his companion. But Joe was silent and seemingly unmoved after the first survey. Myron ventured at last:
“I don’t see where all the stuff is going, do you?”
Joe shook his head. “No, I don’t. Maybe they’ll let you put about half of it in the corridor.”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Myron grumbled. “We won’t be able to move without barking ourshins. I’d like to know how big mother thinks those rooms are!”
“I’m not worrying about my shins,” said Joe placidly, adding when Myron looked a question: “I won’t be there, you know.”
“Oh!” said the other. Silence again prevailed. The trucks trundled from box-car to platform and a nearby engine let off steam with disconcerting suddenness. Finally: “I shouldn’t think you’d want to live in that room if it’s like you say it is,” observed Myron. “Only one window and—and all.”
“Oh, it ain’t so worse. Merriman wants me to go over and take half his place, but that part of town’s pretty fierce.”
“Great Scott! Why, that’s an awful hole he’s in!”
“Well, with something more in it, it wouldn’t be bad.”
“I don’t see——” Myron paused and was busy for a moment detaching a splinter from beside him. “I don’t see,” he continued, “why you want to move anyhow.”
Joe turned slowly and observed him in mild surprise. “Well, considering that you invited me to,” he answered, “that’s a funny crack to make.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t let me have the roomsby myself, anyhow,” said Myron. “And I’d rather have you with me than—than some fellow I didn’t know at all.”
“Thanks, but I guess I’d better light out. I’m sort of backwoodsy for you, Foster. Maybe the next guy will be more your style, see? Besides——”
“Besides what?” demanded Myron with a frown.
Joe chuckled and nodded toward the furniture. “I couldn’t live up to that,” he said.
Myron’s gaze followed his companion’s and he viewed the crated monstrosities distastefully. “I don’t see why you need to keep rubbing it in about my—my ‘style,’” he said crossly. “Just because I have more than two suits of clothes you needn’t always try to make out that I’m a—a——”
“I don’t,” answered Joe calmly. “Besides, I’ve got four suits myself now: and an extra pair of trousers!”
“Then—then it’s just that stuff?” asked Myron, waving toward the furniture.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. You see, kiddo—I mean Foster——”
“Oh, dry up,” muttered Myron.
“You see, I’ve been used to simple things.The old man and me—I—me—whatever it is—lived pretty plain for a long time. Lately we’ve stayed in a hotel in Portland most of the time. I ain’t used to chiffoniers and enamelled tables and all those gimcracks. I’d feel sort of—of low in my mind if I had to live in a place all dolled up with ribbons and lace and mirrors and things.”
“There aren’t any ribbons and——”
“Well, you get my idea,” continued Joe untroubledly. “Me, I sort of feel freer and more contented in a log-cabin. I suppose it’s all what you’re used to, eh?”
Myron made no reply for a minute. They were loading the big moving-van now and he watched them morosely. He half wished they’d drop that grey-enamelled bookcase over the side. At last he said desperately: “Look here, Joe! If I dump all that truck into the warehouse will you stay?”
It was the first time he had ever called Joe by his first name and that youth looked almost startled. “Why—why, you don’t want to do that!” he stammered.
“Yes, I do,” replied Myron doggedly. “That’s just what I do want. It was a mistake, sending it. I sort of felt so when mother suggested it, but she set her heart on it, you know: thought I’d be more comfortable and all if I had my own things.But they’d look awfully silly, all those light grey tables and chairs and bookcases, and I don’t want them there. So—so I’m going to let these folks store them until spring. There’s no use hurting mother’s feelings, and I’ll just let her think that I’m using them; unless she asks me. When spring comes I’ll ship them back. And you’ll stay where you are, won’t you?”
“Gosh! Say, this is so sudden, kiddo! And it sure seems an awful shame to hide all those corking things. But—why, if you really don’t want them and—and you don’t mind me being sort of rough and—and all that, I’ll stick around.”
“Honest, Joe?”
“Sure, kiddo!”
Myron drew a long breath of relief and turned to the man in charge of the job. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Take those things to the warehouse, will you? And tell them I’ll be around tomorrow and fix things up.”
Only one thing troubled Joe, which was that he couldn’t have Zephaniah with him. Faculty strongly disapproved of dogs, even very young and very small dogs, in the dormitories. So he made arrangements with a good-hearted stableman to look after the puppy and himself rigged up a home for it in an unused stall behind a litter of brooms and old harness and buckets. Puppy biscuit, which Merriman sternly decreed was to be its only food, was laid in lavishly, a china drinking bowl was supplied and Zephaniah, very unhappy at parting from his brothers and sisters and mother, was dulyinstalled. The pun is not mine, but Myron’s. Joe visited the stable at least once a day and was to be seen stalking along the streets accompanied by a silly, frisking little atom at the end of a magnificent leather leash. Once away from the busy thoroughfares, the puppy was set free and had a glorious time. Frequently Myron went along on these excursions and the two boys often laughed themselves sick over the ridiculousantics of Zephaniah Q. Dobbins. Several times Merriman also joined them and took along Tess and her two remaining offspring, and at such times life was chock full of excitement and merriment. The weather was wonderful that autumn and those strolls about the outskirts of the town were events that remained in Myron’s memory long afterwards. They led to an ever-increasing intimacy between the three boys and Myron began to find existence at Parkinson really enjoyable. No one could fail to like Joe Dobbins or to admire his big-heartedness and sturdy honesty of purpose and deed, and Myron least of all. He saw now the kindness that had underlaid the indignity Joe had practised on him when he had been forcibly kept from meeting Paul Eldredge, and was grateful. He saw many other thoughtful and kindly acts as well. Joe’s rough ways, or ways that had seemed rough at first, were now only things to smile at. Myron was learning that there were many things less to be desired in a friend and room-mate than uncouthness. New clothes, too, had made a difference in Joe. Under Myron’s guiding hand he had purchased two plain but well-fitting suits—as well as the extra pair of trousers that Myron had advised and that Joe was now so proud of—and, in a way, he was livingup to those suits. He had been good-naturedly guyed by many of his friends and acquaintances, of which he had dozens a week after the beginning of school, for the change wrought in his appearance had been well-nigh startling, but he hadn’t minded a bit: it took more than that to upset Joe’s equanimity. It was about the time that he first appeared in classroom in his new clothes that some fellow fell on the quite obvious nickname of “Whoa,” to which Joe was already accustomed, and from that time on he was “Whoa” Dobbins to the whole school. Only Myron and Andrew Merriman stuck to “Joe.”
Merriman required more knowing than Joe Dobbins. Although Myron had liked him at first acquaintance and grew to like him more as time went on, he never felt that he knew him as thoroughly as he knew the other. “Merry Andrew” at first meeting seemed perfectly understandable. At the second meeting you realised that most of him was below the surface. At subsequent meetings you despaired of ever knowing him thoroughly. He was the happiest, cheerfulest fellow Myron had ever encountered, and no one would have suspected that there was such a thing as a care in his life. And perhaps there weren’t many, either, for a care doesn’t becomea care until you let it, and Merriman’s policy was not to let it. Of friends, at least close friends, beyond Joe and Andrew, Myron had none so far. He knew various fellows, most of them football chaps, but only casually. He didn’t make friends easily. It is only fair to acknowledge that there was something in Myron’s attitude, although he didn’t realise it, that warned fellows away. Popularity such as Joe might attain would never fall to his share.
So a fortnight passed and Parkinson played her second football game and began to find her stride. Cumner High School proved less of an adversary than expected and went down to defeat, 12 to 0. Myron didn’t get into action: didn’t expect to, for that matter: and neither did Joe. Joe, however, expected to, and was a little disappointed and decidedly restive while he and Myron watched from the bench. Inaction didn’t suit Joe a bit. Garrison, who had played the position last season on the scrub eleven, stayed in at right guard until the last quarter and then Mills, a recent discovery of Coach Driscoll’s, was given a chance. Mills, a big, yellow-haired infant of seventeen, proved willing and hard-working, but he was woefully inexperienced, and only the fact that Cumner had already shot her bolt and was playinga strictly defensive game kept him in until the final whistle.
Joe’s hero on the team was Leighton Keith, who played right tackle. Joe expatiated for whole minutes at a time on Keith’s work and rather bored Myron. “Honest, Joe,” he protested, “I think he plays perfectly good ball and all that, but I don’t see where he has anything on Mellen, or even Flay.”
Joe shook his head. “You aren’t watching him, Myron. You’ve got to know the position, too. I’ve played tackle, kiddo, and I know what a guy’s up against. I’ll tell you about Keith and Mellen. Mellen’s a fair, average tackle, a heap better on attack than defence, I guess, but Keith’s more than that. He—look here, it’s like this. Know those dollar ‘turnips’? Well, they keep right good time, don’t they?”
“Some of them,” agreed Myron.
“Most of them, Brother. Well, Mellen’s like a dollar watch. Looks good outside and works all right inside. Dependable and all that. All right! Now did you ever cast your eye over a nice hundred and fifty dollar watch all dotted over inside with jewels and all glisteny with little wheels and dudads? Sure! That’s Keith. He works just like the innards of that watch, kiddo. Everymove’s exact. He never misses a tick. He’s smooth-running and guaranteed. He—he’s an artist! I’d just as lief see Keith play tackle as see old Josh Reynolds paint one of his million-dollar portraits.”
“Reynolds is dead,” laughed Myron.
“All the more reason then,” replied Joe calmly. “Keith isn’t!”
“All right,” said Myron, “you cheer for Keith. To my mind the best player in that brown bunch is Cater.”
“Yeah, he’s good, too,” owned Joe. “I call him a nice little quarter. Nice fellow, too, Cater. So’s Steve Kearns. Know him?”
“Playing full-back? No, only to nod to. I don’t think he’s as good a full-back as Williams, though.”
“Both of them will stand improving,” said Joe drily. “Gee, I wish Driscoll would let me in on this!”
But, as has been said, he didn’t, and when the game was over Joe and Myron trotted back to the gymnasium with a host of others equally unfortunate. After showers and a return to citizen’s clothing they took Zephaniah Q. Dobbins for a walk. Or, it would be more exact to say, a romp.
The Latin coaching ended the last of the nextweek, by which time Andrew Merriman declared Myron up with the class. Myron wasn’t so certain of it and would have continued the tutoring if Andrew hadn’t refused. “You’re discharged,” said Andrew. “You know about as much as Old Addie himself now, and a lot more than I. All you have got to do is study.”
“Is that all?” asked Myron ironically. “It isn’t anything if you say it quick, is it?”
But Andrew proved right about it, and Myron found that as much work applied to Latin as to other studies kept him on good terms with Old Addie.
There was one thorn in Myron’s side at this time, and its name was Charles Cummins. Cummins was a riddle to Myron. Ever since the time he had spent that unpleasant half-hour in Cummins’ awkward squad the freckle-faced, shock-haired giant had never let an opportunity pass to accost him. There was no harm in that, of course; the trouble was that Cummins always made himself so disagreeable! It seemed to Myron that the chap deliberately sought him out in order to rile him. And it wasn’t so much what Cummins said as the way he said it. It got so that Myron only had to see the other approaching to feel huffy. Long before Cummins got within speaking distanceMyron had his back up, and Cummins, knowing it, seemed to take delight in it.
Cummins was generally known as “Chas,” from his habit of signing himself “Chas. L. Cummins.” He declared that Charles was far too long to spell out. He played left guard and played it well if erratically. In a way, he was difficult to get along with, for he considered himself a law unto himself, and it was no unusual thing for him to veto a coach’s instructions, which, up to a certain point, the coach stood for. The others were at outs with him half the time, but liked him through all. Oddly enough, even the timidest youngster he ever bullied and brow-beat in practice was strong for him afterwards. It was no secret that he was holding his position on the first team by little more than an eyelash, for Brodhead was hot on his trail and Coach Driscoll had put up with more of Cummins’ calm insurrection than was agreeable to him. In appearance “Chas” was a broad, heavily-built giant with much red-brown hair that never was known to lie straight, eyes that nearly matched the hair and a round, freckled face that was seldom neutral. It was either scowling savagely or grinning broadly. For his part, Myron preferred Cummins’ scowls to his smiles, for the smiles generallyheld mischief. Usually the two encountered each other only on the playfield in the afternoon, but one morning a few days after the Cumner game Myron, walking back to the room after a chemistry class, sighted Cummins coming out of Goss Hall.
“Gee, there’s that pest!” he muttered, and, contrary to school regulations, started on a short cut across the grass in the hope of avoiding him. But it was not to be. Cummins had sighted his prey.
“O Foster!” he called.
Myron nodded and kept on.
“Tarry, I prithee! I wouldst a word with thee, fair youth!”
“Go to thunder!” murmured Myron. But Cummins headed him off without difficulty.
“S’pose you know,” he said, “that we can both be shot at sunrise for walking cross-lots like this. Where do you room?”
“Sohmer,” answered Myron briefly.
“Ho, with the swells, eh? Lead on, Reginald! I would visit thy fair abode in yon palace!”
“Not receiving today, thanks,” said Myron. “I’ve got some work to do.”
“Work? Didn’t suppose you silk-stocking bunch in Sohmer ever had to work! Thoughtyou had slaves to do that sort of thing. How little one half the school knows how t’other half lives! To think of you soiling your lily-white hands and getting calloused with labour! What sort of work are you going to do? Clip coupons?”
“Oh, dry up!” exploded Myron. “I’m sick to death of your chatter! And I’m sick of being guyed all the time, too! Lay off, can’t you?”
To his surprise, “Chas” chuckled and thumped him on the back. “A-a-ay!” he applauded. “That’s the stuff, old chap! I was beginning to think you didn’t have any pep in you. There’s always hope for a fellow who can get mad!”
“That isn’t hard when you’re around,” answered Myron, unappeased. “Don’t bang me on the back, either. I don’t like it.”
“All right,” answered Chas, sobering. “I’ll behave. Mind if I come up for a few minutes?”
Myron looked at him suspiciously, but for once Cummins was neither scowling nor grinning. “I guess not,” he answered ungraciously.
“Fine! But don’t embarrass me with your welcome, old chap,” chuckled Chas as they mounted the steps. “Some dive this, isn’t it? Don’t believe I ever hoped to get in here.” Joe was not in and when Chas had looked around the study—a trifle disappointedly, Myron thought—andseen the view from the window he seated himself on the window-seat, took one knee into his hands and viewed his host reflectively. Myron, at the table, fussed with his books and fumed inwardly and wished Cummins would get out. Finally the latter said: “Foster, you and I ought to be great pals.”
Myron looked every bit of the astonishment he felt, and his guest chuckled again. “Because we’re as unlike as three peas, and the only things that can be more unlike than three peas is four peas. You’ve got coin and I’m the poor but proud scion of a fine old chap who made his living laying bricks. You’re a swell and I’m a—well, I’m not. You’re a sort of touch-me-not and I’d make friends with any one. Probably we don’t think alike on any two subjects under the sun. So we ought to hit it off great. Get the idea?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” owned the other, interested and puzzled.
“It’s the old law of the attraction of opposites, or whatever it’s called. Now I took a shine to you right off”—Myron sniffed, but Chas only smiled and went on—“Oh, I don’t always hug a chap I take a fancy to. That’s not my way. I try ’em out first. I tried you out, Foster, old chap.”
“Did you? Well, much obliged, but——”
“You’d rather I minded my own business, you mean? That’s what I like about you, Foster, that stand-offishness. I like the way you sort of turn your nose up and look haughty. You see, I’m not like that. If a stranger says ‘Howdy’ to me I either say ‘Glad to know you’ or I biff him one and pass on. I couldn’t freeze him with a glance as you can to save my precious life.”
“I didn’t know I was as bad as that,” said Myron, a trifle uncomfortable. “I don’t think I mean to be.”
“Course you don’t. That’s the beauty of it. It comes natural to you, just like liking artichokes and olives. I’ll bet you anything you were eating olives when you were four, and I haven’t got to really like the pesky things yet!”
“You talk a lot of nonsense,” said Myron, smiling in spite of himself. “Just what are you getting at?”
“Well, I’m not after a loan, anyway,” laughed Chas. “I was telling you that I tried you out. So I did. ‘He looks like he was a nice sort under the shell,’ says I to me. ‘A terrapin isn’t awfully jolly and friendly when he sticks his head out at you and hisses, but they tell me that when you get under the shell he’s mighty good eating.’ So, thinks I——”
“The idea being that I’ve got to be dead to be nice?” asked Myron drily.
“No, not a bit. The—the simile was unfortunate. No, but I thought I’d get a peek under the shell and see what you were really like. So I set out to make you mad. If a fellow can’t get mad he’s no good. Anyway, he’s no good to me. And he’s no good for football. I was just about giving you up, old chap. You frowned and grumbled and sputtered once or twice and looked haughty as anything, but you wouldn’t get your dander up. Not until today.”
“Well,” said Myron, “now that I have got mad, what’s the big idea?”
“Why, now we can be pals,” answered Chas unhesitatingly. “How does that strike you?”
“Why—why, I don’t know!” Myron faltered. “It sounds like some sort of a silly joke to me, Cummins.”
“No joke at all.” Chas unclasped his hands and leaned back, his big, freckled face wreathed in smiles. “No hurry, though. Think it over. Anyway, there’s something more important just now. I’ve watched you on the field, Foster, ever since they dumped you on me that day. I’ve seen you play and I can tell you what I think of you, if you like.”
It’s human to like flattery in moderation, and so Myron said “Go ahead,” and prepared to look modest.
“I think you’re rotten,” said Chas.
“Wh-what?” gasped Myron.
“Rotten, with a large capital R, Foster.”
“Thanks!”
“Don’t get huffy, old chap. I don’t say you can’t play good football. I think you can. But you’re not doing it now. If I didn’t think you could play the game according to the Old Masters I wouldn’t be talking about it to you. You play like a fellow who doesn’t care. You don’t try hard enough. You don’t deliver the goods. You’re soldiering. Ever see a man laying a shingle roof? Well, he could do the whole thing in a day, maybe, if he worked hard. But he belongs to the union and the union won’t let him lay more than just so many shingles. So he has to slow down. That’s like you. Say, what union do you belong to?”
“I guess the trouble is that Idon’tbelong,” said Myron. “I’m an outsider, and so I don’t get a chance.”
“Tell that to the Marines! Look here, old chap, you can make a real football player of yourself if you want to. I’ve watched you and I know. I’ve seen what you could have done lots of timeswhen you didn’t do it. Now, just what is the row?”
So Myron told him his version of it and Chas listened silently and even sympathetically. But at the end he shook his head. “You’re all wrong, Foster,” he said. “I’ve been here two years now and I know how things go. The trouble with you, I guess, is that you came here with the idea that folks were going to fall all over themselves to shake hands with you and pull you into the football team. Isn’t that pretty near so?”
It was, and Myron for the first time realised it, but he couldn’t quite get himself to acknowledge it to Cummins. He tried to look hurt and made no answer.
“Sure!” said Chas. “And when the coach and the captain didn’t give a dinner in your honour and ask you to accept a place on the team and give them the benefit of your advice as to running same you got peeved. That’s just what I’d have done if I’d been you, you see, so I know. If it was me I’d have either gone to the coach and made a big kick and told him how good I was or else I’d have gone out and played so hard that they’d have either had to take me on or chuck me to save the lives of the others! But you, being Haughty Harold, just froze them with a glance—whichsame they didn’t happen to see—and went your way. And it’s a rotten way, too. Because it won’t get you anywhere. Driscoll won’t fall for you until you show something and you won’t show anything until Driscoll pats you on the back. Say, I’m talking a whole lot! What time is it? And you’ve got some digging to do! I’ll beat it. Think over my words of wisdom, Foster, and drop around tonight and hear more. I’ve got a plan, old chap. I’m in 16 Goss; first floor, on the right. Bye-bye!”
And before Myron could agree or refuse the invitation Cummins had hurried to the door and was clattering downstairs. Myron went to the window and, in somewhat of a daze, watched Cummins emerge below and disappear under the trees. Then he sat himself down on the window-seat, plunged both hands into trousers pockets and frowned intently at his shoes. He didn’t get much studying done that hour.
There was hard practice that afternoon in preparation for the Musket Hill Academy game, and the second squad, in process of becoming the second team, with a coach and signals of its own, was sent against the first for three long periods. Myron found himself with the third squad, as usual, however, and ended practice with a half-hour scrimmage against the substitutes. Perhaps Cummins’ words had made an impression, for he certainly played good, hard ball today and ran rings around the opposing ends and backs. As they played on the second team gridiron, while the first team was battling, his performance was not noted by the coach. But Keene, an end who was off with a bad ankle and who refereed the scrimmage, saw and casually made mention of Myron’s work to Jud Mellen later.
“That chap Foster played a nifty game today,” said Keene. “He might bear watching, Jud.”
“Foster? Yes, he’s not half bad. If we didn’t have so many good halves he might be useful.Best we can do for him, though, is to carry him over for next year, I guess.”
“Well, he’s a pretty player. It seems too bad to waste him. How would he fit at end?”
“Looking for a chance to retire?” laughed Jud. “What would we do with another end, Larry? Have a heart, man!”
“Well, but he ought to be tried somewhere, just the same, Jud. He plays so blamed smooth!”
“I wonder if he’d make a quarter.” Jud paused in the act of lacing a shoe and stared speculatively at a grated and dusty window. Then he shook his head. “I guess we’re good enough at quarter. We’ll know better after Saturday’s game, though. How’s the foot getting on? Going to be able to play a bit?”
“Sure! It’s coming on fine. I’ll be good for the whole game.”
“Yes, you will, son! A couple of quarters is about your stunt, I guess. Driscoll wants to give O’Curry a show, anyway. Know what I think? Well, I think Musket Hill’s going to give us a tough old tussle. They’ve got almost every lineman they had last year and the same quarter; and you know what the score was last time.”
“Twelve to ten, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and it ought to have been turned around,for they played us to a standstill in the second half. Driscoll’s firm for starting with a second-string line, but I don’t like it. That Musket Hill coach is a fox. If they get a score on us in the first quarter we’ll be lucky to pass them.”
“They play hard ball, and that’s no joke,” agreed Keene. “I hope he pulls me out before Grafton gets in.”
“What’s the matter with Graf?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t seem to get on with him. I think he plays too much for the centre of the line. There’s always a hole there and I get about two yards more of territory to look after. You keep your place, but Grafton sort of wanders in.”
“Glad you spoke of it,” answered Jud. “I’ll watch him. Going over?”
Up to a half-hour after supper Myron was convinced that he had no intention of visiting Cummins that evening. Cummins was a lot more decent than he had thought him, in fact a rather likable fellow, but he had a disagreeable way of saying things that—well, didn’t need to be said. Besides, there was something almost indecent in telling another that you liked him and asking him to be pals! Even if Cummins had taken a fancy to him, as he declared, at least hemight have kept it to himself. But when supper was over and Myron had turned on the steam in Number 17—the evenings were getting decidedly chilly now—and settled himself to write a letter home, Cummins’ freckled countenance insisted on obtruding itself between him and the sheet of grey, yellow-monogrammed paper. Joe had not returned to the room and, when the letter was written and he had brushed up on Latin and math., he would be pretty well bored, he supposed. He got as far as “Dear Mother and Father: I didn’t get this letter written yesterday because I was very busy——” Then, after trying to recall what he had been busy with and fiddling with the self-filling device on his pen for a good ten minutes, he gave it up. He guessed he’d walk over and hear what Cummins’ plan was. Not that it interested him any, but he didn’t feel like writing just now.
Cummins himself answered Myron’s knock, although the battered door of Number 16 bore not only his card but that of “Guy Henry Brown,” to the end of which name some facetious person had added the letters “D.D.” Brown, who played right half on the first team, was not at home, however, and Cummins, stretched out along the window-seat, was the sole occupant of the room. The room served as study and chamber both, and anarrow, white-enamelled bed stood against the wall on each side. The rest of the furnishings were nondescript and had evidently seen long service. A few posters adorned the painted walls and the carpet was so threadbare in places that one had to guess at the original pattern and hue. Nevertheless, there was a comfortable and home-like look to Number 16 which Myron acknowledged. Cummins tore himself from the book he was reading with unflattering deliberateness and indicated a shabby automatic rocking-chair.
“Try the Nerve Dispeller,” he invited. “So called because when used your own nerves leave you and go to the other chap, who has to watch you rock. It’s all right; it won’t go over; that’s just its playful way.”
“What were you reading?” asked Myron, by way of conversation.
Chas held the book up and the visitor was surprised to see that it was what he mentally called “a kid’s story.”
“Oh,” he murmured.
Chas grinned. “I know, but I like them. They’re easy to understand and there’s generally something doing all through; and you can’t say that for these novels some of the fellows pretend to read. I tried to wade through one last summer.Nothing happened until I got to page 112, and then the hero changed his shoes. Maybe he changed back again later, but I ducked. Well, how are you tonight?”
“Me? All right, thanks.” Myron wondered why he had said “Me,” and then realised that he had caught the trick from Joe. “I had a letter to write, but I couldn’t seem to get at it, and so I thought I’d drop over and see—hear——”
“That plan? Well, it’s a good one. Put your feet up here, will you, and keep that thing still? Do you mind? It pretty nearly sets me crazy to talk to any one who’s bobbing back and forth like one of those china mandarins! I’d have chucked that chair long ago, only Guy hates it worse than I do. Do you know him, by the way? Guy Brown: plays right half on the first.”
“Only to speak to. I’m not well acquainted amongst the ministry.”
“Oh, that? Some fresh youth wrote that and a couple of days afterwards Hale called—Do you have him in physics? He lives down the hall—and said it was sacrilegious. But I told him it stood for ‘Decent Dub’ and he calmed down. Say, Foster, can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” said Chas.“Lot’s of fellows can’t. I’m not very good at it myself. But I guess you’re one of the kind who can. Well, here it is. I’m going to be captain next year.”
“Are you? Captain of what?” asked Myron politely.
“Football, you chump! What did you think, the Tennis Team?”
“Oh!” Myron stared, wondering whether the other was joking. But Chas appeared to be quite in earnest and returned Myron’s gaze with an expression of bland inquiry.
“Does that interest you?” he asked.
“It interests me to know how you know you are,” said Myron.
“Of course. Remember that it’s a secret. If you ever tell any one what I’ve just said I’ll draw and quarter you and frizzle you crisp in boiling oil. I know it, old chap, because I’m after the job, and what I go after I get. Unless some dark horse develops between now and the Kenwood game I’m certain to get it. So we’ll call that settled, shall we?”
“Just as you say,” laughed Myron. “If you want it, though, I hope you get it.”
“Thanks. Of course, I realise that it isn’t usual to mention such matters. You’re not supposed toknow that there is such a thing as a captaincy. When you get it you nearly die of surprise. Well, that’s not me. I’m after it. Mean to get it, too. I wouldn’t say this to every fellow because most of them would be so shocked at my—my indelicacy they’d never get over it. Besides which, they’d probably vote against me.” Chas chuckled. “So can you if you like, Foster. I’m not making a bid for your vote.”
“I’m not likely to have one,” replied Myron drily.
“You will have if my plan works out. Now you listen. If I’m going to captain next year’s team—and I am, old chap; don’t you doubt it!—I want some players around me. I don’t want to run up against Kenwood and get licked. That might do when some other fellow’s running things, but not when I am. No, I want some real players with me, Foster. So I’m building my team this fall.”
Myron laughed. “Honest, Cummins, you’re the craziest chump I ever met! Are you—are you in earnest?”
“Why not? Good, practical scheme, isn’t it? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, but—you’re not captain! And how can you build up a team when you’re not?”
“How? You watch me. Take your case, old chap. Maybe you won’t make good this year. Mind, I saymaybe. I think you will. But if you don’t, what?” Myron shook his head helplessly, signifying he gave it up and that no matter what the answer proved to be he was beyond surprise! “Why, you’ll be A1 material for next—ifyou keep your head up. That’s my game, to see that you keep going and learn all the football you can and don’t drop out of training after the season’s over. I think basket-ball will be a good thing for you to take up, Foster. Or you might go in for the gymnastic team. But I won’t have you playing baseball, so don’t get that bug in your bonnet. Baseball’s spoiled a lot of good football chaps. Track’s all right if you don’t overdo it. We’ll settle all that later, though.”
“Very well,” agreed Myron docilely. “Don’t mind me.”
Chas grinned. “Not going to—much. But you see the idea, don’t you? What do you think of it?”
“I think,” returned Myron deliberately, “that it’s one of the craziest schemes I ever heard of.”
Chas looked much pleased. “All right. And then what?”
“And I think it may work out beautifully.”
“Sure it will! So that’s why I went after you, old chap. You’re a ‘prospect.’”
“Oh,” said Myron demurely, “I thought it was because you had taken a violent fancy to me.”
“That too! Don’t make any mistake, old chap. I want fellows of the right sort, and I want fellows that I like and who like me. I can do things with that sort: they’ll work for me. And I’ll work for them: work my fingers off if necessary. Now for the plan.”
“I’m listening,” said Myron.
“How’d you like to get on the first this fall, Foster?”
“Well, seeing that I’m black-and-blue pretty nearly all over, that seems sort of—of idle!”
“Just getting black-and-blue isn’t enough, old chap. Lots of dubs are purple-and-green that’ll be dropped next week. Now, look here. Who told you you were a born half-back?”
“No one, of course. I’ve played that position, though, and know it. I played end for a while too, but half seemed to be my place.”
“Yes. Well, we’ve got exactly five good to middling half-backs this year, Foster, and you’re no better than about two of them and not nearly so good as two more, Brown and Meldrum. So,you see, you’re sort of up against it. See that, don’t you?”
“I suppose so. Just the same, if I had a chance I might beat Brounker and Vance, and then, if Brown or Meldrum——”
“Broke his neck you’d get in?” asked Chas impatiently. “What’s the good of that sort of figuring? What you want to do, old chap, is to go after something that shows a chance of success. That other game’s too much like waiting for dead men’s shoes, as they say. You might get into the big game for five minutes, or you might not. And I’m not so dead sure that you could beat out those fellows. And, anyway, there’s still Robbins against you. Yes, I know he isn’t such a wonder now, but suppose he starts to come while you’re coming? How do you know he won’t come just as fast, or a little bit faster? No, that’s rotten planning, Foster. You’re all wrong. Forget that you’re a half and go hard after a job that’s open to you.”
“Where’ll I find it?” asked Myron. “What other position is there?”
“Full-back,” said Chas.
“Full-back!” exclaimed Myron. “Why, I never played it! I don’t know it! I——”
“Piffle! What’s the difference? Any chap who can play half well can play full-back decently. Besides, I’ve got a strong hunch that you’d make a good one, Foster. You aren’t as heavy as I’d like you, but you’re fast and you start quick and you hit ’em hard. When it comes right down to it, I’m not sure I wouldn’t as soon have a lighter man who can jump off quick as a heavier one who gets going slow. But the big idea about turning you into a full-back is that you’ll have a fair show for that position. I like Steve Kearns, but he ought never to have been taken back from the line. He was a mighty promising tackle last year until Desmond got damaged and we had to have a full-back in a hurry. As for Williams and Bob Houghton, they aren’t more than fair. There’s a nice job waiting for a smart, steady full-back who’ll live on the premises and be kind to the dogs, Foster. And I nominate you.”
Myron made no answer for a moment. This thing of having some one else arrange his affairs was a bit startling. Finally he said, doubtfully: “Aren’t we forgetting that Driscoll and Mellen have something to say, Cummins?”
“Not a bit of it. What we’ve got to do is show them that you are the fellow they want there. Then they’ll simply have to have you.”
“It would be learning a new game, though.”
“Rot! The positions aren’t very different. Just think a minute.” Myron thought. Then:
“How about punting?” he asked dubiously.
“I’ve seen you do thirty,” answered Chas.
“You seem to have made a life study of me,” laughed Myron. “Yes, I can do thirty, and better, too, I guess, but I’ve never had much of it to do and I don’t believe that I can place my kicks, and I don’t know how I’d get along if a bunch of wild Indians was tearing down on me. I’d probably get frightfully rattled and try to put the ball down my neck, or something.”
“You’d need practice, of course,” Chas granted. “I could show you a few things myself, and if you went after the position Driscoll would see that you got plenty of punting work. Don’t let that worry you. The thing to do, and it may not beso easy, is to persuade Driscoll that you have the making of a good full-back.”
“Ye-es.” Myron was silent a minute. “I’d like to ask you something, Cummins,” he said at last.
“Shoot!”
“What other changes are you considering on the team?”
Chas chuckled. “None, just now. I had thought—but never mind that. You see, what I want to do, Foster, is to fix things so that when next September rolls around I’ll have the making of a good team. A lot of this year’s bunch will graduate, you know. I’ve got to make sure that there’ll be other chaps to take their places. For instance, Steve Kearns, even if he was a corking good full-back, wouldn’t do me any good next fall because he won’t be here. Don’t get it into your bean that I’m queering this year’s team for the sake of next year’s, though, because that’s not the idea. I wouldn’t do that if I could.”
“I begin to believe you could, all right,” said Myron. “I have a notion that if you thought it would be better to have some one else captain you’d talk Mellen into resigning!”
“Well, I dare say I’d try it,” laughed Chas. “Now what do you say?”
“About this full-back business? Why, I’m willing, Cummins. I’m not getting anywhere as a half-back, and I guess I wouldn’t do much worse at the other stunt. But what I don’t see is how I’m to persuade the coach to let me change.”
“I know. I haven’t got that quite doped out yet. I don’t believe just asking for a chance to play full-back would do. He might fall for it, and he might not. You let me mull that over until tomorrow and I’ll see if I can’t hit on some scheme. Meanwhile, if I were you I’d sort of put myself through an exam and see how much I knew about playing full. You might take a book that I have along with you and read what it says about it. It’s not a very new book, but it’s the best that’s ever been written, and there isn’t much difference in a full-back’s job then and now. I’ll see you at the field tomorrow. By the way, are you going with the team Saturday?”
“To North Lebron? I don’t know. I don’t suppose Driscoll will take me with the squad, but I might go along and see the game.”
“You’d better. It doesn’t hurt a fellow to see all the football he can, even if he sees it from the stand. Got to beat it? Well, here’s the book, old chap. And mind, not a word to any one about this business. It’s between you and me, Foster.”
Myron found Joe and Andrew Merriman in the room when he got back, and he took his part in the talk for a half-hour or so. When Andrew went he pushed his school books aside and opened the little blue-bound volume that Cummins had loaned him. Joe, across the table, half-hidden by the drop-light, knotted his fingers in his hair and groaned at intervals. At ten both boys yawned and went to bed. Myron was not a sparkling success in Latin class the next forenoon.
A three o’clock recitation made him somewhat late for practice and Cummins was trotting about the gridiron in signal work when he arrived at the field. Mr. Driscoll sent him over to the second team gridiron to join the third squad and so, after all, he didn’t learn from Cummins whether the latter had found a solution to their problem. Nor did he run across Cummins again that day. The first team was let off early, all save the punters and goal-kickers, and Cummins had left the gymnasium when Myron got there at half-past five. He considered looking him up at his room after supper, but he had rather more than half promised Joe to go over to Merriman’s and so decided not to.
There was no practice for the first the next afternoon, but the other squads were put througha full day’s work. To Myron’s surprise, Cummins took command when scrimmage time came, Coach Driscoll disappearing from the field. Myron found himself at left half on the second squad, with Houghton at full-back. In that position he played for five minutes. Then Cummins, who was evidently very hard to please today, called a halt.
“That’ll do, Bob,” he told Houghton. “O Billy! Got a full-back there?”
“I have not,” answered the trainer. “I’ve got a half here. Want him?”
“Wait a minute.” Cummins ran his eye over the second squad backs. “Foster, have you ever played full?” he growled.
“No,” answered Myron.
“Want to try it? All right, fall back here. Send your half in, Billy.”
Myron heartily wished that Cummins hadn’t shifted him, for while he had a very fair notion of a full-back’s duties, he wasn’t at all keen about displaying his knowledge under those circumstances. He was, he felt, bound to make a hash of the job, and there were several fellows within a few yards who would be tickled to death to have him do so. He was glad he had discounted his failure by acknowledging his inexperience. When Cummins had asked him, he hadn’t known whetherthe temporary coach had expected him to say yes or no. He didn’t know yet, but he felt that his reply had certainly been the better one.
Cummins wasn’t gentle with him. Every mistake he made, and he made many, was pointed out to him in emphatic language. Myron wanted to pinch himself to make certain that he wasn’t dreaming. Cummins had conspired with him to get him into the position of full-back and now he was snarling and growling at him quite as though Myron had forced himself into the place on false pretences. Myron thought that in consideration of the circumstances Cummins might have dealt a little less harshly with his shortcomings. But, on the whole, Myron didn’t do so badly. He honestly believed that he was playing as well as the deposed Houghton. Cummins didn’t let him punt, for which he was grateful, and he encouraged Warren, who was playing at quarter, to use many end plays. Outside of tackle, Myron was usually successful whenever he received the pigskin, and he once or twice made good on plunges at the centre of the line. There, however, his lack of weight told somewhat. In the first twelve-minute period the second squad got one touchdown and goal and might have had a second score if Cummins had not put them back from the eight yardsto the eighteen on some whim of his own. Third got the ball on downs six inches from the last white streak and punted out of danger, and the second was mad enough to rend Cummins limb from limb! When a five-minute rest came Cummins called Myron from the bench and led him into the field. To those watching it was perfectly evident that Chas was telling the green full-back how absolutely rotten he was. They would have been surprised had they heard the conversation out there.
“You weren’t half bad, old chap,” said Chas eagerly, yet scowling ferociously still. “You slowed up once or twice when you hit the line, though. Try to keep going hard. A good way to do is to think of the other fellow’s goal line instead of his players. Sort of make yourself think that’s where you’re going. You’ll get farther before you’re stopped, if you are stopped. How do you like it?”
“All right,” answered Myron, a bit grumpily. “But considering that I’ve never played it before it seems to me you might let up on me a bit. You go on as if I’d murdered my grandmother!”
“Why, sure,” chuckled Chas. “You don’t want those fellows to think I’m pulling for you, do you? It’s got to look like an accident, don’t you see?I want to be able to tell Driscoll tonight that you went in at full in an emergency and played a corking good game. Then, if he has half the sense I think he has, he will put you in there himself the first of the week and look you over. By the way, want to try a little punting in the next period?”
“I don’t believe I’d better,” answer Myron. “I guess I’d rather not.”
“Maybe you’re right. If you made a mess of a punt it would sort of take off a few good marks. All right. Now see if you can do a little better still this half. And don’t mind my growls, old chap. You’re getting no worse than any other fellow would get.”
Twelve more minutes of hard playing followed in which the third turned the tables with a long run that netted a touchdown. But the try-at-goal failed and, after the second had battered its way to the enemy’s twelve yards, Warren’s attempt at a drop-kick went wide and the referee, the assistant manager, blew his whistle. In that second period Myron did a little better because he was learning his duties, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he showed phenomenal ability as a full-back. He made several good games, gains, was strong in defensive play and got off one very pretty forward pass to Mistley that netted twentyyards. In short, Chas had to show a little more enthusiasm than he actually felt when he spoke to Coach Driscoll that evening. There had been a final conference in the coach’s room at half-past seven attended by the trainer, the managers and seven of the players, and the last problem of the morrow’s game had been solved more or less satisfactorily. Afterwards, Chas remained behind with Jud Mellen and Farnsworth and Harry Cater for a sociable chat. None of them meant to talk football, and none of them did for a full quarter of an hour, but it is difficult to keep the subject uppermost in the mind out of the conversation, and presently Jud said thoughtfully:
“I wish we had about three more good plays, Coach.”
“We’ve got enough, Cap,” was the confident reply. “No use trying to remember too many at this time of the season. Better know ten or twelve well than half know twenty. It isn’t lack of plays that will beat us tomorrow, if wearebeaten——”
“Sure to be,” interpolated Katie cheerfully.
“Well, it’ll be because we haven’t got our attack working, then. Musket Hill is well ahead of us in development, and that’s going to count, fellows. However, we may show them something, at that.”
“By the way, Coach,” said Chas, “I ran out of full-backs this afternoon and used that fellow Foster through most of two periods. He wasn’t half rotten, if you ask me. He’d never played it in his life, either.”
“Foster? What happened to Houghton?”
“It wasn’t his day,” said Chas. “So I had to find some one else for the second squad.”
“Houghton hasn’t had a day for a good while,” murmured Farnsworth drily.
“For the love of Mike,” exclaimed Jud Mellen, “if we can make a full-back of Foster, let’s do it, Coach! It’s the weakest position on the team right now.”
“I’ve been thinking that Kearns would come on,” said Mr. Driscoll, “but he doesn’t seem to get the hang of it.”
“He works hard enough,” said Katie.
“How did you happen to choose Foster?” asked the Coach of Chas. “You had Wiborg. He’s played full.”
“Don’t think he was there. I asked Billy and Billy only offered me a half.”
“Wiborg wasn’t out today,” explained the manager. “He’s been having some trouble with the Office. Nothing serious, I believe, but he asked for a cut.”
“You say Foster showed up pretty well, Cummins?”
“He really did, Coach. Of course, I don’t know how he’d be at punting, but he made some mighty good gains from kicking formation and went into the third pretty hard from close in.”
“He could be taught enough punting to get by with,” suggested Captain Mellen. “Maybe he’ll be a find, Coach. I’ve said right along that he looked good.”
“No harm in trying him,” mused Mr. Driscoll. “If Kearns doesn’t show something tomorrow we’ll need a good full-back. Much obliged for the tip, Cummins. Well, good night, fellows. Get a good sleep and be ready with the punch tomorrow. We want that game if we can get it!”