“I wish you would!” said Myron. “You’ll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Can you remember that?”
“Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I’ll remember, Foster. Awfully glad to have met you. It’s jolly nice to run across a chap who’s—well, a chap who has your own views on things, if you get me.” He shook hands cordially, evidently regretfully. “I’ll try to find you at the game, old man. If I don’t, look for me in your burg before long. I’m going to have a go at that dealer you spoke of.”
“I’ll try and save a seat for you if you think you’re likely to find me,” offered Myron.
But the other waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I can squeeze in. And I may be rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat ’em!”
That encounter restored both Myron’s self-esteem and good humour, and he enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way uptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets about the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, the latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second—and last—season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later to speak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the school gymnasium together.
“They fed us at a hotel down there by the station,” said Joe sadly, “and I want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us in bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris lost his roast beef and didn’t find it until he was through dinner, and where do you suppose it was?”
“In his lap, I guess.”
“No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!”
Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite full of his subject, but Joe didn’t seem to find it interesting and soon interrupted to point out a building. “What do you suppose that is?” he asked. “Looks like a factory of some sort, don’t it? Only it ain’t—hasn’t got any chimneys, as far as I can see.”