Parkinson played Mapleton the first Saturday after the opening of school and had no difficulty in scoring as she pleased, confining herself mainly to old-style line-bucking attack. Mapleton was not, however, a strong opponent, and the final score of 18 to 0 was not particularly complimentary to the home team. There was much ragged playing on both sides, for neither team had had more than a week of preparation. Parkinson started with four of last year’s players in the line and two behind it. The substitutes, of whom many were used before the contest was over, were not notably brilliant, with the possible exception of a lad named Keene, who went in as left end in the final five minutes, and of Joe Dobbins who played a steady game at right tackle for the entire fourth period. Myron, watching from the bench with half a hundred others, viewed Joe’s success with mingled emotions. He was rather surprised at Joe’s skill, but he was not a little disgruntled at the ease with which that raw youth had attained his success. Here was he, Myron, still kicking his heels with the fourth or fifth squad, while Joe, who played no better and knew no more football, was already chosen as possible school team material. Myron secretly thought it a “raw deal.” He had become fairly reconciled to remaining at Parkinson, but this afternoon he again began to suspect that his talents and merits were not to receive the consideration they deserved and to wish that he had been able to go elsewhere. They had worked him off on the kindergarten class as instructor two afternoons and he had received no thanks for his labours. Aside from that, he had received no sort of recognition. He might just as well be one of the raw recruits! He suspected that it might pay him to push himself forward a little: he believed that Joe had done that. But then Joe was just the sort of chap who would see nothing out of the way in self-advertisement. Although Myron held a very good opinion of himself as a football player he considered it beneath his dignity to beg for favours. If Coach Driscoll couldn’t discover talent for himself then he could do without it. “I’ll give them another week or so,” decided Myron, “and then if they haven’t given me a show I’ll quit.”

He was rather chilly toward Joe that evening.

The Latin was progressing well. Merriman saw that it did. He arrived like clockwork every evening save Sunday at exactly ten minutes past seven, spread his books and papers without the loss of a minute and had no breath for extraneous matters. “Good evening” was the extent of his small-talk. After that it was business with him. When, on the occasion of his first appearance in 17 Sohmer, Myron asked him how the puppies were getting along, Merriman frowned and said: “You aren’t paying me to talk puppies, Foster. Have you found the page?” Having finished the two-hour session, Merriman dropped his books into a green-cloth bag, took up his hat, said “Good-night, Foster,” and went. That, at least, was the usual procedure, but this Saturday night he varied it. When he had pulled the string of that green bag close he laid it beside his hat and asked: “Doing anything?”

“Doing—oh, no, not a thing,” answered Myron.

“Then I’ll stick around a few minutes.” Merriman pulled a chair toward him and settled his feet on it and sighed luxuriously. “I suppose you saw the game this afternoon. You told me you were out for the team, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Myron’s voice may have sounded disgruntled, for Merriman smiled faintly and asked:

“What’s the matter? Working you too hard?”

“No, they aren’t working me at all,” replied Myron bitterly. “I mean, all I’m doing is going through a lot of stunts I learned two years ago. I guess things are sort of balled up this year. They’ve got so many candidates out there that they can’t begin to handle them all, and I dare say I’ll be just where I am in November—if I stay.”

“Cheer up,” said the other. “They’ll let you go before that.”

“But, hang it, Merriman, I’ve played the game for two years: more than that, counting when I was a kid: and I was captain of my team last year. That may not mean much to these fellows here, but at least it ought to secure me a chance to show what I can do.”

“Seems so. Doesn’t it? I mean, aren’t you getting a chance?”

“No, I’m not,” answered Myron warmly. “I’m fuddling around with about fifteen or sixteen other fellows, most of whom never saw a football until a week ago, and getting nowhere. No one pays any attention to you here. They just say ‘Report to Jones or Smith or some one’ and forget all about you.”

“Hm. Why not tell Driscoll you want a real try-out?”

“Why can’t he see that I deserve one? It isn’t my place to select his players for him!”

“N-no, but if there are so many candidates that he’s likely to overlook you——”

Merriman was interrupted by the entrance of Joe Dobbins. It was well after nine and Joe thought he was privileged to return home. Finding Merriman still there, however, he hesitated at the door. “Hello! I thought you were through, Foster. I’ll beat it.”

“We are through,” said Merriman. “I’m going myself in a minute.”

“Oh, all right. Don’t let me scare you away, though.”

Myron performed the introduction and the two boys shook hands.

“Glad to know you,” said Joe heartily. “Any guy who knows enough Latin to teach it to others can have my vote every time!”

Myron frowned. He wished that Joe wouldn’t talk so much like a rowdy, and he glanced at Merriman to see how that youth had taken his room-mate’s breeziness. Apparently Merriman was neither pained nor surprised. Instead, he was regarding Joe with smiling interest. “Thanks,” he said, “but being able to teach Latin to others doesn’t amount to much, Dobbins. When the other fellow knows a little less about any subject than you do you can trust a lot to bluff.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” exclaimed Joe, flinging himself into a chair. “Look at Foster there. He’s been teaching a lot of poor dubs how to catch a football, and I dare say they think he invented the game!” He winked at the visitor and grinned at Myron. The latter, however, was not feeling kindly enough toward Joe to take the joke gracefully. He flushed and scowled.

“I dare say I know as much football as some fellows who played this afternoon,” he said huffily.

“Right you are, kiddo! But that isn’t saying a whole lot. Some of those guys were pretty green, I thought. Did you see the game?” He looked at Merriman and the latter shook his head.

“No, I would have liked to, for, although I never played, I’m a regular football fan. But I don’t have much time for the games. I take it that you played today.”

“Me? A little. They put me in for the last quarter. Guess they didn’t have any one else.”

“Where do you play?” asked Merriman.

“Tackle, guard, anywhere around there. It’s a great game, football. I’d rather play it than—than study Latin! Say, you’re the guy that has the puppies, aren’t you? Foster was telling me. I’d like to see ’em. I’m crazy about dogs.”

“Come around some day,” replied Merriman cordially. “You’ll find me in usually between nine and ten and one and two.”

“I’ll just do that little thing,” Joe agreed. “Gee, if I had a place to keep one of ’em I’d fall for it. Maybe if I find a room outside I’ll buy one off you.”

“Glad to sell you one, Dobbins. I’ve got five that I don’t need. Well, I must be getting back. By the way, I’m home all the morning tomorrow. If you like to drop around I’ll be glad to show you my children.”

“It’s a go,” said Joe heartily. “Have ’em all dressed up for company, eh? I’ll be there.”

“Nice guy,” observed Joe when Merriman had taken his departure. “I sure do like a fellow that looks cheerful. Ever notice how many of the chaps here look like they’d just eaten a sour pickle, Foster? It doesn’t cost a cent more to look cheerful, either.”

“Your idea of looking cheerful is to grin like a codfish all the time,” growled Myron. “I’d rather look the other way.”

“Huh! Ever have a good look at a codfish, kiddo? He looks as sour as—as you do this minute! Has his mouth all drawn down, you know. Maybe he’s a real merry sort of a guy when he’s in the water, but he sure doesn’t look that way when he’s out of it!”

“Never mind how I look,” said Myron sharply. “And cut out that ‘kiddo.’ I’ve spoken about that often enough.”

“Oh, all right. My error.” Joe winked gravely at the lamp. After a moment he asked: “When’s that furniture of yours coming?”

“I don’t know. It should have been here before this. Why?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering. I was looking at a room on Union Street this afternoon. A fellow’s got it now, but the dame says he’s going to move out next week. I’d have to furnish it myself, of course. I suppose furniture costs a good bit, eh?”

“Some of it,” answered Myron.

“Maybe I could get some second-hand things, though. I wouldn’t need much. The trouble with the dive is that it has only one window and that looks out on a back yard full of washing. There’s something sort of—of dejecting about a lot of clothes on a line. Don’t know why, either. How’d you like the game?”

“All right, I guess.”

“How did I do?”

“You know as well as I, don’t you? I wasn’t watching you particularly.”

“That’s funny,” chuckled Joe. “I thought every one was watching me hard. Anyway, the guy I played opposite was! That was an easy bunch, though. Their backs weren’t on the job at all. Maybe I wouldn’t rip them up if I was their coach! They say next Saturday’s game will be a real one, though. Hope they let me in again. How are you coming on, by the way?”

“I’m not coming on,” said Myron. “I’m getting a bit sick of it, and if they think I’m going to stand much more of their silly nonsense they’re mistaken. I’m all right to coach a lot of greenies, it seems, but after that I can whistle. I wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t play as well as half the fellows that were in the game today.”

“I guess your time’s coming,” said Joe consolingly. “They’ll be weeding them out next week, and when they’ve got rid of about forty of them they’ll be able to see what’s left.”

“If they don’t hurry I won’t be one of those left,” said Myron grumpily, “and that’s flat. I wish I’d stuck to my first scheme and gone to Kenwood. There are fewer fellows there and maybe a chap might have a chance to get somewhere.”

Joe shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m glad you didn’t do that,” he said. “Sort of sounds like treason or something. Say, how’d you happen to change your mind, anyway? Old man kick at it?”

Myron had not gone into particulars regarding his decision to remain at Parkinson but had told Joe that “he guessed he’d try to stick it out.” If Joe had surmised the real reason for the overnight change of heart he had kept the fact to himself. Now Myron hesitated. He didn’t want the real reason known nor did he want to tell Joe a lie. So he answered: “There wasn’t any kick, but as you spoke of going to the village I thought—that is—my father thought——”

“Oh, he knew about that, eh?”

“Who? About what?”

“Your father: about me thinking of getting a room outside.”

“Not exactly, only he thought I might get a place to myself later.”

“You’re a punk liar, Foster,” laughed Joe. “The old man put your little scheme on the blink when he telegraphed to you. Now didn’t he?”

“About that,” confessed Myron a bit sheepishly.

“Sure! I knew it all the time. And he was dead right, too. I’m going to talk sense to you, Foster, whether you get sore or not. The trouble with you is that folks have made you think you’re something a little bit better than the common run of fellows. You’ve always had everything you’ve wanted and you’ve been kept pretty close to the old million dollar hut, and I guess when you were a youngster you didn’t have many fellows to play around with because your folks thought they might be sort of rough and teach you to throw snowballs and wrestle and all those vulgar things. And you’re the only kid, too, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Myron loftily, “but if you’ll kindly mind your own business——”

“Shan’t,” said Joe unruffledly. “You listen a minute. What I’m telling you’s for your own good, just like everything nasty. Being an only kid with rich parents and servants to tuck your napkin around your neck and everything is mighty hard on a fellow. It—it mighty near ruins him, Foster! You aren’t exactly a ruin—yet, but you’re sure headed that way. Why, doggone you, why ain’t I good enough to room with? What you got that counts that I ain’t got! Same number of arms and legs, eh? Wear about the same size hat, don’t we? Some fellows would have punched your head if you’d lorded it over ’em the way you did over me that first day. Why——”

“You try it!” said Myron wrathfully.

“Well, you look like a fair scrapper, but I don’t believe you ever had a good fight in your life. Anyway, that’s not the question. What I want to know is where you got your license to act like you’re better than the next guy. Money don’t make you that way, nor classy clothes, nor knowing how to get into a limousine without falling over your feet. Hang it, Foster, you’d be all right if you’d just forget that your old man owns a ship-yard and get it into your bean that other fellows are human even if they wear hand-me-downs and would try to shake hands with the butler! Think it over, old horse, and see if I ain’t right.”

“I don’t have to think it over. You ‘ain’t’ right.” Myron laughed contemptuously. “You think——”

“Yeah, I’m likely to say ‘ain’t’ when I get excited,” replied Joe, “but I’ll get over that in time.”

“You think that just because I wear decent clothes I’m stuck-up,” protested Myron hotly. “I’ve never said or pretended that I am better than—than any one else! As for rooming with you, I explained that. I was to have a room to myself. That was understood.”

“All right,” said Joe soothingly. “But when you found you couldn’t be by yourself why didn’t you face it like a sport! And why turn up your nose as if they’d asked you to bunk in with the Wild Man of Borneo?”

“I’d just as lief,” sputtered Myron. “He wouldn’t be any wilder than you are!”

“Yeah, but wait till you see me in those new duds we ordered,” said Joe pleasantly. “Maybe you’ll be real proud of me then. Wouldn’t wonder if you’d almost speak to me when there’s other fellows looking!”

Myron flushed and his eyes fell. “That’s a rotten thing to say, Dobbins,” he muttered.

“True, though, ain’t—isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t!”

“My mistake then. Sorry. Well, I’m for the old bed. I suppose I might have kept my mouth shut and minded my own business, like you said, but that mess of talk’s been sort of accumulating ever since we came together and I feel better for getting rid of it, whether you do or not! Sorry if I said anything to hurt your feelings, Foster.”

“Don’t worry. You didn’t. What you say doesn’t cut any ice with me.”

“Then there’s no harm done, eh? Nor good either. It may make you happier to know that I’ve decided to take that room I told you about, though. The guy that’s in it now moves out next Friday and faculty’s given me leave to change. That ought to give you sweet dreams, eh?”

“It will,” replied Myron acidly.