“You say Foster showed up pretty well, Cummins?”
“He really did, Coach. Of course, I don’t know how he’d be at punting, but he made some mighty good gains from kicking formation and went into the third pretty hard from close in.”
“He could be taught enough punting to get by with,” suggested Captain Mellen. “Maybe he’ll be a find, Coach. I’ve said right along that he looked good.”
“No harm in trying him,” mused Mr. Driscoll. “If Kearns doesn’t show something tomorrow we’ll need a good full-back. Much obliged for the tip, Cummins. Well, good night, fellows. Get a good sleep and be ready with the punch tomorrow. We want that game if we can get it!”
[CHAPTER XVII]
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
The team left for North Lebron at eleven o’clock the next forenoon. The town that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not so far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had not consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result of this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith’s shop, a general store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there were eight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn’t much of anything else to do.
He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, for his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by Manager Farnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other “fans,” mostly because Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he had entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having been invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would be the part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn’t greatly concerned with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was that at a little before nine o’clock Myron was in possession of the knowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.
At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction, juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat serving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October and few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Some of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, others were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures, and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station agent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else appeared to care about taking his place. Joe and Chas were with the football crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of them to speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able to come. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at home. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and patriotic brown tie and stockings didn’t mitigate his boredom. Of late he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire. Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several times of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!