LITMIR.BIZ

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Amy indignantly.

      "He loves to call a football an 'illusive spheroid,'" chuckled another chap.

      "So it is," asserted Amy vehemently. "I know, because I tried to play with one once!"

      "I'll bet a great little football player was lost when you forsook the gridiron for the–the field of scholarly endeavour," said Tom Hall.

      "He's caught it, too!" groaned the youth beside him, Steve Edwards. "Guess I'll take him home."

      "You're not talking that way yet, are you, Thayer?" asked Jack Innes solicitously.

      "I don't think so," replied Clint with a smile.

      "You will sooner or later, though. The fellow who roomed with Amy last year got so he couldn't make himself understood in this country and had to go to Japan."

      "China," corrected Amy, "China, the Land of the Chink and the chop-stick."

      "There he goes!" moaned Still.

      "What I haven't heard explained yet," said Steve Edwards, "is what's happened to Amy's glad socks. Why the sobriety, Amy?"

      "Wouldst hear the sweet, sad story?"

      "Wouldst."

      "Then give me your kind attention and I willst a tale unfold. You see, it's like this. Clint there can tell you that just the other day I was a thing of beauty. My slender ankles were sheer and silken delights. But–and here's the weepy place, fellows–when I disrobed I discovered that the warmth of the weather had affected the dye in those gladsome garments and my little footies were like unto the edible purple beet of commerce. And I paid eighty-five cents a pair for those socks, too. I–I'm having them washed."

      When the laughter had ceased, Ruddie, who seemed a serious-minded youth, began a story of an uncle of his who had contracted blood-poisoning from the dye in his stockings. What ultimately happened to the uncle Clint never discovered, for the others very rudely broke in on Ruddie's reminiscences and the conversation became general and varied. The boy next to Clint, whose name he learned later was Freer, politely inquired as to how Clint liked Brimfield and whether he played football. To the latter question Clint confided that he did, although probably not well enough to stand much of a chance here.

      "Oh, you can't tell," replied Freer encouragingly. "Come out for practice tomorrow and see. We're got a coach here that can do wonders with beginners."

      "Of course I mean to try," said Clint. "I reckon you wear togs, don't you, when you report?"

      "Yes, come dressed to play. You'll get a workout for a week or so, anyway. Three-thirty is the time. You won't feel lonesome. We've got more fellows here this year than we ever had and I guess there'll be a gang of new candidates. Got a lot of last year's 'varsity players left, too, and we ought to be able to turn out a pretty fair team."

      "Where does Captain Innes play?" Clint asked

      "Centre, and he's a peach. Marvin, over there, is first-string quarter this year. Edwards will be one of our ends and Hall will have right guard cinched, I think."

      "And where do you play?" Clint inquired.

      "Half, when I play," laughed the other. "I'm going to make a good fight for it this year. How'd you know I did play, though?"

      "I–just thought so," said Clint. "You sort of look it, you know."

      That seemed to please Freer. "Well, I've been at it three years," he said, "and this is my last chance."

      "I hope you make it."

      "Thanks. Same to you! Well, I must get along."

      The gathering was breaking up. Most of the fellows were careful to bid Clint good night as they went and several told him to get Amy to bring him around to see them. Captain Innes crowded his way through the confusion of visitors and furniture and sought Clint where he stood aside in the corner.

      "I believe you play football, Thayer?" he said inquiringly.

      "Yes, some."

      "Well, you're modest, anyway," the big centre laughed. "Don't overdo it, though; it doesn't pay. What's your position?"

      "I played tackle at home."

      "Well, you come out tomorrow and show your goods, Thayer. We need all the talent we can get. Hope to see you do splendidly. Good night. Awfully glad to have met you. Good night, Amy. Hope those socks will come out all right."

      "They'll never be the same," replied Amy sadly. "Their pristine splendour–"

      "Get out of here, Amy! You remind me unpleasantly of tomorrow's English and the fact that I haven't looked at it yet!" And Freer, who was a rather husky youth, pushed Amy into the corridor without ceremony.

      On the way back to Torrence Clint asked curiously: "How do you suppose Innes knew I played, Amy?"

      "Oh, he's a discerning brute," responded the other carelessly.

      "But he said he believed I did. That sounds as if someone had told him. Did you?"

      "Well," replied the other hesitantly, "now that you mention it, summon it, as it were, to my attention, or, should I say, force it on my notice; or, perhaps, arouse my slumbering memory–"

      "Meaning you did?"

      "I might have."

      "When?"

      "'S afternoon. We met by chance. Casually I mentioned the fact that you were probably one of the niftiest little linemen that ever broke through the–er–stubborn defence of a desperate enemy–"

      "You idiot!"

      "And that, if properly encouraged, you would very likely be willing to lend your helpful assistance to the Dear Old Team. And he said: 'Bless you, Amy, for them glad tidings. All is not lost, With Clint Thayer to help us, victory may once more perch upon our pennant!' Or maybe it was 'banner.'"

      "Honest, Amy," pleaded Clint, "what did you say?"

      "Only that you were rooming with me and that I'd heard you say you, played and that I meant to bring you around to see him this evening."

      "And he said?"

      "He said 'Of course, bring him along.'"

      "Oh," murmured Clint

      "Just the remark I was about to make," declared Amy.

      CHAPTER III

      AMY AIRS HIS VIEWS

      Clint settled down into his appointed niche at Brimfield, one of one hundred and seventy-two individuals of various ages between twelve and twenty. At Brimfield there were six forms, and Clint had, after a brief examination, been assigned to the fourth. He found that he was well up with the class in everything save Greek and Latin, and these, Greek especially, soon proved hard sledding. The instructor, Mr. Simkins–or "Uncle Sim," as he was called–was no easy taskmaster. He entertained a profound reverence for Aristotle and Vergil and Cicero and Homer and all the others, and failed to understand why his classes thought them tiresome and, sometimes, dry. His very enthusiasm, however, made him easy to impose on, and many a fellow received good marks merely because he simulated a fervid interest. But Clint was either too honest or possessed too little histrionic talent to attempt that plan, and by the time the Fall term was a week old, he, together with many another, was just barely keeping his head above water. He confessed discouragement to his room-mate one evening. Amy was sympathetic but scarcely helpful.

      "It's tommyrot, that's what it is," Amy said with conviction. "What good does it do you to know Greek, anyway? I'll bet you anything that Uncle Sim himself couldn't go to Athens tomorrow and order a cup of coffee and a hard-boiled egg! Or, if he did order them, he'd get a morning newspaper and toothpick. Last Spring I was in the boot-blacking emporium in the village one afternoon and Horace came in to get his shoes shined. There–"

      "Who is Horace!" asked Clint dejectedly.

      "Mr. Daley; modern languages; you have him in French. Well, there was a notice stuck on the wall across the place. It was in Greek and I couldn't make anything out of it at all and I asked Horace what it said. Of course he just read it right off, with a mere passing glance; did he not? Yes,

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