“Come on over here and stretch your weary limbs,” said Alf, cuddling his feet under him to make room and tossing a pillow at the visitor. Alfred Loring was seventeen years old and was captain and quarter-back of the football team. He was a nice, jolly looking fellow with a pair of merry brown eyes and hair of the same shade which he wore parted in the middle and slicked down straightly on either side of his well-shaped head. Alf was in the Second Class, as was his roommate, Tom Dyer. Tom, however, was a year older, a rangey, powerful looking youth, rather silent, rather sleepy-looking, but good-natured to a fault. Tom wasn’t a beauty, by any means, but his gray eyes and his expression when he smiled redeemed the rather heavy features. Tom played on the Eleven at left half and had just been elected captain of the basket-ball team in place of a First Class fellow who had failed to return in the fall.
“Ain’t it cold?” asked Alf as Dan snuggled against the pillow. “If this keeps up we’ll have ice on the river in no time. Do you skate, Dan?”
“Not much. But I’m going to get some skates and try it.”
“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” laughed Alf, “you’re so modest. I dare say you can skate all around me.”
“No, honest, Alf, that’s the truth. I can’t skate much. I never seemed to be able to learn.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d try for the hockey team. But you get some skates and get busy. You’d better come out for the team, anyway. You’ll have plenty of fun, even if you don’t make it.”
“And probably break my silly neck!”
“Well, don’t do that; we need you too much next fall. But you might try for goal. You don’t have to skate much to play goal.”
“Don’t have to do much of anything,” observed Tom dryly, “except stand up there and be hit with a hunk of hard rubber that feels like paving block. I’ve tried it; played on Whitson team two years ago. We played Clarke for the School Championship.”