“Why can’t he be taught? If you think he’s stupid you’re dead wrong, Frederick dear. He’s got a heap of horse sense, that kid.”
“I know. I don’t mean that he’s stupid. Only—well, some fellows can learn about everything except football. I don’t know why it is, but it’s so. Maybe football requires a certain sort of instinct——”
“Oh, piffle! You football fellows think the game’s something sort of—of different from everything else there is! You make me tired! It’s a sight harder to run the half-mile than it is to play a dozen football games!”
“It might be for you,” answered Fred, dryly. “To the limited intellect an easy task always seems the harder. Good morning!”
“Listen, you big galoot! You use Rowland right. Hear me? If you don’t I’ll lick you!”
“What you say goes, Gene,” answered Fred airily from the doorway. “I’ll wrap him in cotton wool the very first thing!”
“Yes, take the stuffing out of your head,” retorted Gene triumphantly.
That afternoon, feeling queer and conspicuous in his unfamiliar attire, Ira slipped out of the gymnasium and joined the stream trickling to the gridiron. That the football togs made a difference in him was proved when he passed Raymond White near the grandstand. Ray viewed him carelessly and looked away without recognition. Then, dimly conscious of a likeness to someone he knew, Ray looked again and turned back.
“Hello, Rowland!” he exclaimed, laughing. “By Jove, I didn’t know you! So you’re out, eh? I’m awfully glad. I sort of thought you’d get the fever after watching a game or two. Well, you’ll like it. See if you don’t.”