“He can play well. He’s one of the best guards we’ve had for years. And in the Hawthorne game last fall—which, as you probably know, Mr. Locksmith, is our big game—he put up a grand old exhibition. Didn’t he, Gil?”
“You bet! And that’s what I say. You can’t altogether dislike a chap who can play football the way he can—when he wants to.”
“Well, he will have to want to pretty soon, I guess,” said Poke. “Johnny’s getting out of patience. When are you coming down to the field with me, Jim, to have a try?”
“About Christmas time, I think.”
“You don’t say? Well, let me tell you something, son. I’m going to get Dun Sargent after you. I’m not going to see a good football player wasted in a locksmith.”
“Good football player!” scoffed Jim. “I never played enough to be good—or even real bad, for that matter. I don’t know enough about the rules to—to—”
“That’s all right,” said Gil. “They’ll teach the rules to you. Just you come and have a try. You’re missing a lot of fun.”
“And a lot of hard work, too,” sighed Poke.
“I wish you would play,” said Hope. “Won’t you, Jim?”
“How can I?” asked Jim a trifle irritably. “I’d like to—in a way—I guess, but who’d do the work here?”