“Bing?” faltered Wigman.
“Yes, Carey Bingham. He’s captain this year. His chums call him Bing for short. Nice chap, Bing. I’ve just been having a chat with him in the smoker. Bing has a queer idea that I’m a judge of football material. Maybe he isn’t so far wrong, either; I’ve picked more than one green player and seen him develop into a wonder. And I don’t believe I’ve picked a bad ’un yet. We were talking over this year’s prospects. Bing’s inclined to be a bit discouraged and—er—pessimistic, but I told him that to my mind we had as good an outlook as ever we’d had. Quite cheered up, he was, when I left him. Wanted me to stay and go over the schedule with him, but I couldn’t stand the smoke any longer. Well, here’s the bridge. We’ll be at Chester Hill in five minutes. I must get my things together. Awfully glad to have met you, Wigman, and if there’s anything I can do for you just let me know, will you?”
“Th—thank you,” said the other boy gratefully. “But I wouldn’t think of bothering you.”
“No bother at all. Tell you what I’ll do, Wigman.” Jonesie drew forth a silver card case, abstracted an oblong slip of thin cardboard bearing his name and home address in ornate Old English letters and scrawled a line on it with a silver pencil. “There’s where I hang out—18 Hawthorne. Look me up as soon as you get settled or let me know where to find you and I’ll drop in. Maybe I can put you on to the ropes a bit, eh? Very glad to do anything I can for a new fellow. Know what it means to be dumped down here with a couple of hundred strangers. Makes you feel sort of lost and all that for a bit. I know! Glad to have met you, Wigman. See you again soon, I hope.”
Jonesie smiled his best and sweetest smile, shook hands and sauntered off, leaving James Andrew Wigman filled with gratitude and admiration. Halfway along the aisle an imperious hand shot out and seized on Jonesie. Jonesie, after a vain attempt to elude his captor, faced him innocently.
“Hello, Carpenter,” he said sweetly. “How’s the boy?”
“What have you been up to, Jonesie?” inquired Carpenter, a big Senior, sternly.
“Me?” Jonesie’s candid countenance expressed surprise. “Why, nothing!”
“What kind of a yarn have you been stringing to that poor Fresh down there?” persisted Carpenter.