“Sure! That’s all right,” said Joe Dobbins. “If I want to dig I can trot over to the library or somewhere. Seven to nine, you said?”

“Yes, but it won’t be for very long, I guess: maybe only a couple of weeks. Merriman seemed an awfully clever sort of a chap.”

“Must be if he can teach Latin! I never did see the good of that stuff, anyway.” Joe fluttered the pages of the book he had been studying. After a moment he said: “Say, Foster, you’re a sort of sartorial authority—how’s that for language, eh?—and you know what’s what in the line of clothes, I guess. Now I wish you’d tell me honestly if there’s anything wrong with the things I wear. They look all right to me, but I notice two or three of the fellows sort of piping ’em off like they were wondering about ’em. What’s wrong with the duds?” And Joe glanced over the grey suit, with the large green and blue threads running through it, that he was wearing.

“Why, they——” But Myron paused. Three days before he would not have hesitated to render a frank opinion of the clothes; would have welcomed the opportunity, in fact: but this afternoon he found that he didn’t want to hurt Joe’s feelings.

“Spit it out, kiddo—I mean Foster! Let’s know the worst.”

“Well, I suppose they’re good material and well made, Dobbins, but the fact is they—they’re different, if you see what I mean.”

“I don’t. What do you mean, just? Style all wrong by Fifth Avenue standards?”

“By any standard,” replied Myron firmly. “They look ready-made.”

“But, gee, they are ready-made! I never had a suit made to order in my life. Why should I? I’m not hump-backed or—or got one leg longer than the other!”

“Some ready-made clothes don’t look it, though,” explained Myron. “Yours do. Did you get them in Portland?”

“Sure. We’ve got some dandy stores in Portland.”

“Did that suit come from the best one?” asked Myron drily.

“N-no, it didn’t, to tell the hideous truth.” Joe chuckled. “You see, the old man has a friend who runs a store and we’ve both got sort of used to dealing with this guy. He’s a pretty square sort, too; a Canuck. Peter Lafavour’s his name. But I guess maybe Peter doesn’t know so much about style as he makes out to, eh? I always sort of liked these duds, though: they’re sort of—er—snappy, eh?”

Myron smiled. “They’re too snappy, Dobbins. That’s one out with them. Then they don’t fit anywhere. And they look cheap and badly cut.”

“Aside from that they’re all right, though?” asked Joe hopefully.

“Perhaps, although gentlemen aren’t wearing pockets put on at an angle or cuffs on the sleeves.”

“And Peter swore that this suit was right as rain!” sighed Joe. “Ain’t he the swine? How about my other one?”

“Well, it’s better cut and hasn’t so many queer folderols,” answered Myron, “but it looks a good deal like a grain-sack when you get it on, old man.”

“What do you know about that!” Joe shook his head dismally, but Myron caught the irrepressible twinkle in his room-mate’s eyes. “Guess I’ll have to dig down in the old sock and buy me a new outfit,” he continued. “I suppose those tony-looking duds you wear were made to order, eh? Think your tailor could make me a suit if I wrote and told him what size collar I wear?”

“I’m afraid not, but I saw a tailor shop in the village here today that looked pretty good. Why not try there?”

“Blamed if I don’t, kid—Foster! I don’t suppose you’d want to go along with me and see that I get what’s right? I’d hate to find I had too many buttons on my vest—I mean waistcoat—when the things were done!”

“I don’t mind,” answered Myron after an imperceptible moment of hesitation, “although you really won’t need me if the chap knows his business. No first-class tailor will turn you out anything that isn’t correct.”

“Yeah, but—well, I’d feel easier in my mind if I had you along. Maybe tomorrow, eh? Somehow these duds I’ve got on don’t make such a hit with me as they did! Coming over to the gym? It’s mighty near time for practice.”

“In a minute,” answered Myron carelessly. “You run along.” Then he reflected that if he was to go with Joe to the tailor’s the next day he might just as well start in now and get used to being seen with him. “Guess I’m ready, though,” he corrected. “Come on.”

The distance from Sohmer to the gym was only a matter of yards, and it wasn’t until the two reached the entrance of the latter building that they encountered any one. Then, or so Myron imagined, the three fellows who followed them through the big oak door looked curiously from Joe’s astounding attire to his own perfectly correct grey flannels. He was glad when the twilight of the corridor was reached, and all the way down the stairs to the locker-room below he was careful to avoid all suggestions of intimacy with Joe.

Football was still in the first rather chaotic phase. An unusually large number of candidates had reported this fall, and, while in theory it was a fine thing to have so much material to select from, in reality it increased the work to be done tremendously. On the second day of school one hundred and twelve boys of all sizes and ages and all degrees of inexperience were on hand, and coach, captain and trainer viewed the gathering helplessly. Today a handful of the original number had dropped out of their own accord, but there were still nearly a hundred left, and when Myron, having changed to his togs, followed the dribble of late arrivals to the field he wondered what on earth would be done with them all. Perhaps Coach Driscoll was wondering the same thing, for there was a perplexed frown on his face as he talked with Billy Goode and contemplatively trickled a football from one hand to the other.

Myron rather liked the looks of Mr. Driscoll. So far he had not even spoken to the coach and doubted if the latter so much as knew of his existence, but there was something in the coach’s face and voice and quick, decisive movements that told Myron that he knew his business. “Tod” Driscoll was about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and had coached at Parkinson for several seasons. He was a Parkinson graduate, but his football reputation had been made at Yale. He was immensely popular with the students, although he made no effort to gain popularity and was the strictest kind of a disciplinarian. Today, while Myron, pausing at the edge of the crowded gridiron a few yards distant, viewed him and speculated about him, the coach showed rather less decision than usual, for twice he gave instructions, once to Billy and once to the manager, and each time changed his mind.

“We’ve got to find more instructors,” Myron heard him say a trifle impatiently. “How about you, Ken? Know enough football to take a bunch of those beginners over to the second team gridiron?”

“I’m afraid not, Coach,” answered Kenneth Farnsworth.

“You don’t need to know much. What do you say, Billy? Who is there? I’ve got most of the veterans at work already, and there isn’t one of them that shouldn’t be learning instead of teaching.”

Myron didn’t hear the trainer’s reply, for at that moment a well-built, light-haired, somewhat harassed youth of apparently nineteen strode up to the group. “Look here, Coach,” he began before he was well within talking distance, “what about the backs? We’ve got to have some get-together work before Saturday’s game, haven’t we? Cater says you’ve got him in charge of a kindergarten class, Brown’s sewed up the same way, Garrison hasn’t shown up——”

“I know, Cap. But what are we going to do with this raft of talent? Some one’s got to take hold of them, and I can’t take more than twenty. Cummins is about ready to go on strike——”

“It is a mess, isn’t it?” Captain Mellen turned and viewed the scene puzzledly. “The worst of it is that there probably aren’t a dozen in the whole lot worth troubling with.”

“True, but we’ve got to find the dozen,” answered Mr. Driscoll. “We can’t afford to miss any bets this year, Cap. We’ll call the first-choice backs together at four. That’ll give us half an hour for kindergarten stuff. But I want a couple more fellows to take hold. Who are they?”

“Search me! Why not double them up, sir?”

“They’ve been doubled up—or pretty nearly. Cummins has about thirty to look after and Cater twenty-four or five. That’s too many. Sixteen’s enough for a squad. How about Garrison?”

“He isn’t here. I don’t know what——”

“He’s cut,” interposed Farnsworth. “Got a conference at four.”

“Conference! Gee, why couldn’t he have that some other time?” asked Jud Mellen.

“Time to start, sir,” said Farnsworth, looking at his watch.

“All right, let’s get at it. But I wish I could think—Who’s that fellow there, Mellen?” Mr. Driscoll dropped his voice. Mellen turned and looked at Myron and shook his head.

“I don’t know him, Coach. Who is he, Ken?”

“I think”—Farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had found the F’s—“I think his name is Forrest. No, Foster. High school fellow. Two years playing. Passed a corking physical exam.”

“Foster!”

Myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined the group. “Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field and show them how to handle the ball? You know the sort of stuff, don’t you? Passing, falling, starting and so on. Want to try it?”

“Yes, sir, I can do it all right.”

“Good! We’ve got such a mob here today that we’re short-handed. Stick to me a minute and I’ll round you up a bunch.”

“You can’t call him exactly modest, can you?” asked the manager of Billy Goode when the others had walked away. “‘I can do it all right,’ says he.”

“How do you know he can’t?” asked Billy. “And if he can there ain’t any harm in his saying so, is there? Say, if I was starting my life over again, my friend, I’d say yes to everything like that any one asked me. I missed a lot of good chances by being too modest.”

“And truthful?” laughed Kenneth.

“Let it go at modest,” said Billy smiling.

Myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to the second team gridiron and set to work. Four other awkward squads adorned the field, the nearer one being under the care of Charles Cummins. Myron smiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which Cummins regarded him. When their glances met Cummins nodded shortly. To put his class through the third lesson was no trick for Myron, but it was dreary and tiresome work. It seemed to him that Coach Driscoll must have deliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for of all the awkward squads Myron had ever had anything to do with his was the awkwardest. But some few presently began to respond to treatment and by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging knees and elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on the trickling pigskin he felt that he hadn’t done so badly with them. He didn’t say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that too much instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither did he try to impress them with their stupidity. As a result, most of them eventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions. Watching, Myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into the face of Cummins, who, giving his own charges a moment of rest, had walked across unnoticed.

“How do you like it?” Cummins inquired shortly.

“There are other things I’d rather be doing,” replied Myron. He didn’t feel particularly friendly toward this chap who had badgered him so a day or two before, and his tone showed it. A smile flickered around the corners of Cummins’ mouth.

“Main thing,” he said gravely, “is to be patient with them. I find that pays best.”

Myron turned and looked at him wonderingly. “That sounds well,” he replied sarcastically. Cummins grinned.

“Got it in for me, haven’t you?” he said. “Don’t blame you—er—Whatever Your Name Is. I was never cut out for a teacher. Besides, I want to get to work myself. What’s your line? Tackle?”

“I don’t know. Whatever I get, I suppose. Try that again, you chap. Get started quicker. I played half-back last year.”

“Guard’s my game. Well, I guess I’d better go back and hound those fellows some more. See you again, Foster, if I live.”

Myron wondered why Cummins had pretended not to recall his name at first. “Just to be as disagreeable as possible, I guess,” he concluded. Cummins’ hectoring voice floated across the field just then: “All right, my hearties! Line up again and, for the love of limes, look intelligent if you can’t act so!”

Ten minutes later the awkward squads were called to the bench and Myron went to work on Squad D or E, he didn’t know which it was, and trotted around the field behind a shrill-voiced quarterback, practising a handful of elementary plays that he already knew by heart. He wondered how long it would be before some one in authority discovered that they were wasting the time of a first-class half-back!