“That isn’t—isn’t the same thing.”
“Why not? It’s football. And you say you don’t want the glory.”
“I don’t, but—”
Gerald’s explanation was cut short by a knock on the door. He frowned at the interruption, glanced inquiringly at Dan and cried “Come in!” The order was obeyed and a boy of about Gerald’s own age, but taller, larger and sturdier, entered and stood embarrassedly in the doorway.
“Is—is Mr. Vinton in?” he asked.
Dan sat up on the bed and nodded, looking inquiringly at the visitor. The latter wasn’t by any means a handsome youth. His hair was of a nondescript shade of light brown, a sort of ashy-brown, his eyes were gray, his nose just escaped being a pug nose and his mouth was decidedly large. But there was something about the face, which was most liberally sprinkled with brown freckles, that made you like it; perhaps the eyes with their straightforward way of looking at you, perhaps the nose with its humorous disregard for classic outline, perhaps the good-natured mouth that seemed always on the point of breaking into a smile, perhaps the combination of all the features together. But whatever the cause, the result was undeniable; the face was pleasing in spite, or perhaps because, of its homeliness.
The boy came from the country; there was no manner of doubt about that. His hair, worn too long according to city standards, told you so; the freckles told you so; the poorly cut, pepper-and-salt suit of clothes fairly cried it at you. And a certain awkwardness of carriage affirmed it. Seeing the boy’s embarrassment, Dan went to his rescue.
“Hello!” he said. “Come in and sit down. I’m Vinton. What can I do for you?”
“Why—why—my name’s Burtis,” stammered the other. “I just got here to-day, and I was at the meeting to-night and heard you say you wanted fellows to play football, and I thought I’d come and see if you had an application blank you—you don’t want.”