"Is my father ill?" asked Dick.
"No, not ill, only worrying over business. I always said he had too many irons in the fire, and now some have burned him," declared the old man as he walked along beside his nephew out of ear-shot of the crowd. "I've come on to try my hand at helping him."
"But what can you do here?" asked Dick. "And why must I leave Kentfield?"
"To help your father. I should think you'd be glad to. He needs money. It costs money to stay here and play those silly, dangerous games."
"Not very much money, Uncle Ezra."
"Don't tell me! You ought to be in my woolen mill earning four dollars and a quarter a week, instead of wasting cash here. Now I want to have a serious talk with you, Nephew Richard. Your father is in trouble, and it's your duty to leave here and help him."
"I think I can help him by staying here just as well. But did he tell you to take me away from Kentfield—just when I have the football team in good shape? Did he say I was to leave?"
"No, he didn't exactly say so, but I know it would help. Besides, you might get injured playing this game, and then you'd be a cripple for life. You ought to be at work. Now I can make a place for you in the mill. In time you could work up to twelve or fifteen dollars a week, and of course, being my nephew, and the son of my only sister, I'd give you a chance. Better come, Dick. You might be hurt here."
"And I might be hurt in the mill, Uncle Ezra. I have heard of people being caught in the machinery."
"Well, of course it's possible," admitted the crabbed man. "But you must be careful. Besides if you got hurt in the mill it would be in a good cause. Though I warn you I carry accident insurance for all my employees and you can't collect any damages from me."