“Yes.”
Kendall poised the ball in his hands, judged distance and direction, took a step, dropped the pigskin and met it fairly with his toe. It was a fairly good kick, the ball traveling some thirty-five yards or more before it struck, but it landed twenty or thirty feet away from the flag. He turned apologetically to Mr. Dana.
“That wasn’t very good, but you see I haven’t kicked for two or three weeks. Shall I try it again?”
“Yes, try a placement.”
Mr. Dana led the way with long strides to where the ball lay and picked it up. “I’ll hold it for you,” he said. “Make it straight and goal-high, Burtis. Suppose you were kicking from the thirty yards.” Mr. Dana dropped his cane, tossed his hat beside it and stretched himself out on the turf. Then with the ball lengthwise between his hands he waited directions.
“I—I never had anyone hold it for me,” said Kendall dubiously. “Will you put it more that way, please?”
“How’s that?”
“All right, I guess.” Kendall stepped forward, swung and the ball shot away, turning on its shortened axis, straight and true. Mr. Dana, poised on one knee, watched. Had there been a crossbar within thirty-five yards that ball would have gone over it with room to spare. Mr. Dana arose, brushed his knees and elbows lightly and shook his head. Kendall saw and was humble.
“It’s awfully hard to judge, Mr. Dana, when there aren’t any lines to go by. I’ll try again, if you like.”
Mr. Dana eyed him thoughtfully. Finally,