“Rowland.”
“What makes you think you want to play guard, Rowland?”
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t want to play guard, especially.”
“You don’t!” growled Neely. “Then what are you doing here?”
“Coach Driscoll told me to report to you. He didn’t tell me what I was to do. But I’d just as lief be guard as anything.”
“Suffering cats!” groaned Neely. “And this is what happens to a peace-loving citizen like me! Have you ever played guard?”
“No.” Ira shook his head, smiling a little in sympathy with Neely’s outraged feelings. “I haven’t played anywhere. I’m just beginning.”
“Fine! I can see that you’re going to be a huge success. Well, all right.” Neely waved a hand weariedly. “Cut across to that gang and do what you see them do. Only for the love of Mike, try to do it better!”
The “gang” alluded to consisted of some ten or a dozen boys who were divided into two lines. They faced each other and, when one of their number stooped down and trickled a ball back between his wide-spread legs immediately crashed together and lunged and pushed and shoved and gave a good imitation of a small riot. Most of the linesmen were older than Ira, and several of them were larger. He couldn’t find a place to station himself and was still hesitating when Neely arrived, almost on his heels.
“Move up one, Buffum, and let this man in there. You’re a guard, Rowland. The other side has the ball. Now get through.”