The next afternoon Manager Locker, early on the field and uninterestedly watching two second-string backs kicking a ball about, beheld with surprise the approach of a youth in togs who had, at the distance of a hundred yards, a remarkable resemblance to Stuart Harven. Nor did his surprise decrease as the youth drew nearer and the resemblance increased. Locker drew in a long breath and ejaculated: “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Then he stepped eagerly forward. “Stuart!” he exclaimed. “Gee, this is great! Say—”
But Stuart interrupted gravely. “Hello, Fred,” he said. “I’d like to report for practice.”
Locker opened his mouth for a good laugh, but something in the other’s face caused him to change his mind. Instead: “Oh!” he faltered. “That’s fine! Well, I guess we need——”
“Might take my name if you don’t mind.” Stuart’s gaze traveled to the breast of Locker’s jacket and came to rest significantly over an inside pocket.
“What? Oh, sure!” The manager hurriedly produced his red book and plucked a pen from a pocket of his vest. There was no harm in humoring the other!
“Stuart Harven, seventeen, Upper Middle Class, 12 Lacey,” announced the applicant soberly. Locker wrote it down.
“Experience?” he asked.
“Two years. Maybe you’d better say three. I played part of this season.”
Locker nodded, as grave now as Stuart. “What position?” he inquired.
“Quarterback.”