His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of a youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the train and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire. He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to perfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the shape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall, good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. But the stranger forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the platform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: “Hot, isn’t it?”
The stranger’s tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and restraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth had singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soon failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managed to inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in a sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford on business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided to run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill and Parkinson. “I fancy you’re a Parkinson fellow?” he said questioningly. And when Myron acknowledged the fact: “A fine school, I’ve heard. I’ve never been there. Warne’s off my territory. I’ve been thinking, though, that some day I’d run over and see if I could do any business there. I suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York.”
“I think so. There’s one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair line of goods, though.”
“I think I’ll have to try your town. Parkinson’s rather a big place, isn’t it?”
“We have over five hundred fellows this year.”
“Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. I suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey, tennis? How about track athletics?”
“There’s a track team,” answered Myron, “but this is my first year and I don’t know much about it yet.”
“I see.” The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, even admiringly over his new acquaintance. “I say, you look as if you ought to be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?”
“Football, but I’m not on the first. It’s hard work breaking in at Parkinson.”