“Reminds me of my salad days at Princeton, boys. As George here says I’ll be only too glad to prove of any assistance to you, either in the way of umpiring, or giving you a few pointers,” the tall man remarked.
Buster threw out his chest, and the light of a long-delayed triumph shone in his eyes as he exclaimed:
“Fellows, allow me to introduce my friend, Coach Willoughby!”
“What!”
More than a dozen pairs of dilated eyes stared first at Buster and then toward the smiling and bowing gentleman with the athletic build, who began throwing off his coat as though anxious to get down to business.
For a long time past Buster had been quoting Coach Willoughby as an authority on all manner of sports in the gymnasium and on the field. By degrees his comrades had grown to look upon this personage as an imaginary party, and it had of late become a regular habit with them to shout every time Buster started to quote what his patron saint would advise under such and such circumstances.
Imagine their amazement, then, to have him not only prove the truth of this wonderful man’s existence, but to actually have him there on their humble athletic field to coach them in their work!
“Hurrah! three cheers for Buster!” whooped Jack Comfort, as though by that means they might in some measure atone for all the indignities they had heaped upon the head of the fat student in times past.
“And three for Coach Willoughby!” echoed Paul Bird, throwing up his catcher’s mitt.
They were given with a will, while the object of the attention, Buster, assumed an attitude, and allowed a beautiful smile to light up his good-natured face.