“Who is Johnny?” asked Jim.
“Johnny? Johnny is Mr. John Connell, the best little trainer in the country. He’s a wonder! Why, half the big schools have been after him for years, and last spring he had an offer from Dartmouth! You go and let Johnny look you over. If he says there’s no hope for you, all right.”
“I’d like to play well enough,” said Jim, “but there’s too much to do about the house.”
“Why? What sort of things?”
“Oh, chopping kindling, bringing up coal, running to the village, cutting grass—”
“Get your coal up in the morning, cut your kindling at night, telephone to the village and forget the grass,” said Poke glibly. “It won’t do to waste yourself on—on domestic duties, Hazard; you look to me just like a chap who has the making of a good back in him. Say, now, you come out to-morrow afternoon with us and we’ll hand you over to Johnny and see what happens. Will you?”
But Jim shook his head, with a smile. “I know what might happen,” he said. “There might be no coal to cook supper with.”
“Get a fireless cooker,” suggested Jeffrey with a laugh.
“Joking aside, Hazard,” said Gil soberly, “they really need you on the field this fall. We’re short of good men. See if you can’t fix your chores so as to have the afternoons for football.”
“Oh, I think they can do without me,” laughed Jim. “If they ever saw me play they wouldn’t want me a minute. No, I guess I’ll get my exercise right around here.”