"Don't take me for a fool, old fellow!" came rather sharply from Frank.
They left the college grounds and took a trolley car out to the park. Forrest and the team were there ahead of them. A hundred spectators were watching the men catch punts.
Bob Cook was there. He was not coaching; he was standing at one side by himself, watching the men, something like a disconsolate look on his face. This was not like him; it was significant.
As they entered the gate, Halliday touched Merriwell's arm, quickly saying:
"There he goes!"
"Who?" asked Frank.
"Marline. He's getting out to take some punts."
Frank knew Marline by sight, but he had never given the fellow much attention. Now he deliberately sized him up. He saw a well-built, healthy-looking lad, who carried himself gracefully, almost arrogantly. There was more than a suggestion of conscious superiority in Marline's manner.
Punk!—a strong leg sent a twisting ball sailing toward Marline. He ran under it with an air of confidence, and caught it easily, gracefully.
"I take it he is one of the fellows who show up well in practice, at least," said Frank.