LITMIR.BIZ

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surroundings, Myron liked this new acquaintance. Above all, he liked his voice. It was deep without being gruff and had a kind of – of pleasant kindliness in it, he thought. After all, it was no fault to be poor if you couldn’t help it, he supposed; and he had known fellows back home – not intimately, of course, but well enough to talk to – who, while poor, were really splendid chaps.

      Presently Merriman finished his questions and finished jotting down little lines and twirls and pot-hooks on a scrap of paper. Myron rather wished he knew shorthand too. It looked ridiculously easy the way Merriman did it. “All right, thanks,” said the latter as he laid his pencil down. “I think I know what we’ve got ahead of us. Frankly, I don’t see how they let you into the third with so little Latin, Foster. But we’ll correct that. How are you at learning, by the way? Does it come easy or do you have to grind hard?”

      “Why, I think I learn things fairly easily,” replied Myron doubtfully. “Of course, Latin looks hard to me because I’ve never had much of it, but I think – I hope you won’t find me too stupid.” Afterwards, recalling the visit, it struck him as odd that he should have said that. Usually he didn’t trouble greatly about whether folks found him one way or another. He was Myron Foster, take him or leave him!

      “I shan’t,” answered Merriman. “I’ve had all sorts and I always manage to get results.”

      “Do you do much tutoring?” Myron asked.

      “A good deal. Not so much now as later. Spring’s my busy time.”

      “I shouldn’t think you’d have time for your own studies.”

      “I’m not taking much this year. Only four courses. I could have finished last spring, but I wasn’t quite ready for college then. By the way, if you hear of any one wanting a nice puppy I wish you’d send them to me. I can’t keep all that litter and I’d hate to kill the poor little tykes.”

      “I will,” Myron assured him. “And – and I’m not sure I shan’t buy one myself. I suppose I could find some one to keep him for me.”

      “I think so. Well, good morning. Say good-bye to the gentleman, Tess.”

      The terrier barked twice as Myron closed the door behind him.

      CHAPTER VII

      WITH THE AWKWARD SQUAD

      “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

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