“Kid,” he said gravely, “you’ll find a lot of things you won’t like before you get through here.”
II
A week later the awkward squad ceased to exist. Some few of the members, discouraged by the sheer irksomeness of the labor, voluntarily resigned; others, who showed no football possibilities, were dismissed, and the rest, perhaps ten in all, went to Squad C. Among the latter was Harry. Hugh Barrett, the big left guard, who had reigned over the awkward ones, had taken a sort of professional interest in Harry, an interest evinced by muttered words or grunts of commendation at first and by sharp criticisms later. Once he asked the younger boy:
“You fellow in the red shirt! Where’d you learn to catch a ball that way?”
“At home. I played on my high school team three years,” answered Harry. Barrett grunted.
“Three years, eh? How old are you now?”
“Fifteen.”
“Must have started young,” muttered Barrett. “What’s your name?”