“Good guess of mine, wasn’t it?” laughed the other. “Thought you had the build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see. How’s this team you’ve got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill this afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects a hard game, though. I’ve heard that Musket Hill is further along than we are.”
“Those fellows play good football,” said the stranger. “I’ve seen them in action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but my opinion is that you’ll have to go some to do it. Got some good men on your team?”
Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and during the ensuing half-hour [the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information] regarding the school, the football team and Myron Warrenton Foster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of all, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by polite questions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were still conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for the remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestingly himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. More than once Myron’s credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the narrator’s frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of mendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebron was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to attend to before going up to the field.
[The stranger was treated to quite a fund of information]
“Maybe I’ll run across you there—er—What’s the name, by the way?”
“Foster.”
“Mine’s Millard. I haven’t a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say, Foster, if you don’t mind I’d like to look you up if I get to Warne. Those little towns are dull holes if you don’t know any one in them.”