“That’s Chet Randell,” volunteered a lad standing near our three friends. “He’ll make the varsity if he does that trick many times.”
“He deserves to,” said Ned.
“Randell,” murmured Bob. “Say, that’s the fellow who has the room next to mine. I saw his name on the door.”
“Oh, are you fellows from Borton?” asked their informant, naming the dormitory in which Ned, Bob and Jerry roomed.
“That’s us,” said Bob.
“Randell’s a beaut drop kicker,” went on the other, who said his name was Tom Bacon. “Trouble is though, we’ve got too many kickers on the varsity. We want more men who can hit the line, and Chet is a little too light for that. But if he can smear up many of the varsity’s forward passes that way he may make the team. Kenwell Military has the forward pass down fine.”
“Do we play them?” asked Jerry.
“Yes, baseball and football,” answered Tom. “You’re the new fellows—the motor boys—aren’t you?”
“Yes, but we don’t use that name much any more,” returned Bob.