“Well, I don’t know how your coach would like it, Kid. He may not want anyone butting in.”
“Payson? Don’t you believe it! Payson’s a dandy chap, Herb; he’ll be pleased to death to have someone take a hand. Won’t he, Dan?”
“I should think he ought to be,” Dan replied. “Especially a man like Mr. Loring.”
The Yale man acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a laugh. “I don’t know much about coaching, though,” he said. “I’ve never tried it.”
“Oh, well, you know how to play football,” said Alf, “and that’s more than some coaches do. You’ll be all right. With me to help you,” he added as an afterthought. At which they all laughed, even Dyer. Herbert Loring was a big, broad-chested, handsome fellow who looked a little bit spoiled. He was in his junior year at Yale and was one of the star half-backs. It was evident that Alf thought this big brother a very fine and important person, and equally evident that big brother wasn’t denying it. But in spite of the fact that he seemed a trifle too well pleased with himself, Dan quite liked him.
For a time the talk dwelt on football, football past and future, football at Yale, and football at Yardley. Tom Dyer’s part in the discussion was slight, he preferring to get his bag unpacked and his things put away. But it was Tom who finally switched the conversation away from football.
“That protegé of yours shown up yet, Dan?” he asked, pausing on his way to the closet with a pair of shoes in each hand.
“Not yet. He and his father are coming on the six o’clock train, I believe.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Alf. “I’d forgotten all about Little Lord Fauntleroy. Poor old Dan!”
“Who’s Little Lord Fauntleroy?” asked Herbert Loring.