“That’s what you hear whispered about it.”
“And Dick Maxwell belongs to it?”
“I’m afraid he does. Anyway, he runs with that sort of a crowd.”
“I don’t believe it—I can’t believe it, Purdy!” said Larry; but when he left the house a few minutes later to breast his way through a softly falling snow to the newspaper office on the other side of the river, he knew that his last word to Purdick had been more of a hope than a conviction.
VII
IN WHICH DICK MIXES IT
March at Old Sheddon, which had come in like a lion, was promising to go out like a lamb. By the middle of the month the snow was all gone and the athletic field was beginning to dry out enough to let the teams get a little outdoor work.
Keeping up his job as athletic reporter for the student daily, Larry was always on hand when there was anything doing on the field, and as soon as Coach Brock began to organize the teams and squads, he was given a chance to train for the next year’s ’Varsity foot-ball.
Ordinarily, you’d say, any fellow would jump at a chance like that, coming while he was still in his Freshman year, and Larry, who had all along been hoping he might make the team, was ready enough to jump.