“Yours truly,
“John Merwin, Capt. Clearport Eleven.”
With the letter still in his hand, Roger met Sam Rollins on the postoffice steps. Hunk would have hurried on into the building, but Eliot stopped him.
“Look here, Rollins,” he questioned. “I want to know why you failed to come out for practice to-day?”
Hunk shrugged his thick shoulders. “Why, I had some work to do,” he faltered.
“Did you, indeed? How long since you have become ambitious to work? You know, according to your reputation, you never lift a hand to do any labor if you can avoid it.”
“Ho!” grunted Rollins. “That’s all right. Sometimes a feller has to do some things.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming out to the field? You should have given me notice, and you could have done so without any trouble at all.”
“I didn’t think of it,” lied Hunk.
“You know better than that, Rollins. At any rate, you should have thought of it. You were told that our new coach would be on hand, and you knew well enough that I wanted every man out at the field.”