“Yes; Dash Winton, of Dartmouth. He is one of the finest full-backs in the country, and was chosen last year for the All-American Eleven, picked from the leading colleges. Winton is the very man for us.”
“Are you sure you can get him?” inquired Mr. Eliot.
Roger nodded. “I’ve taken care of that. I have corresponded with him, and I can have him here two days after I raise the money.”
“Well,” said Mr. Eliot, rising, “go ahead and raise all you can. When you can’t get any more, come to me and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thank you, father!” exclaimed Roger.
When they had returned to the library Roger asked Ben to come to his room, and Stone followed up the broad stairs.
Roger’s room, like the rest of the house, was a wonder to Ben. In its alcove the white bed was partly hidden by portières. The rich carpet on the floor was soft and yielding to the feet. On a table were more magazines and books, part of a jointed fishing-rod, and a reel over which Roger had been puttering, as it did not run with the noiseless freedom that was necessary fully to please him. The pictures on the walls were such as might be selected by an athletic, sport-loving boy. Supported on hooks, there was also a rifle, while crossed foils adorned the opposite wall. In a corner was a tennis racket, and Ben observed dumb-bells in pairs of various sizes.
“Take the big chair, Stone,” urged Roger. “You’ll find it rather comfortable, I think. I like it to lounge in when I’m reading or studying.”
Ben found himself wondering that this fellow who had so many things—apparently all a boy’s heart could desire—should be so free-and-easy and should mingle every day without the least air of priggishness or superiority with other lads in much humbler circumstances.
This view of Roger’s domestic life, this glimpse of his home and its seeming luxuries, together with a knowledge of his unassuming ways, led Stone’s respect and admiration for him to increase boundlessly.