“I think”—Farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had found the F’s—“I think his name is Forrest. No, Foster. High school fellow. Two years playing. Passed a corking physical exam.”
“Foster!”
Myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined the group. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“Think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field and show them how to handle the ball? You know the sort of stuff, don’t you? Passing, falling, starting and so on. Want to try it?”
“Yes, sir, I can do it all right.”
“Good! We’ve got such a mob here today that we’re short-handed. Stick to me a minute and I’ll round you up a bunch.”
“You can’t call him exactly modest, can you?” asked the manager of Billy Goode when the others had walked away. “‘I can do it all right,’ says he.”
“How do you know he can’t?” asked Billy. “And if he can there ain’t any harm in his saying so, is there? Say, if I was starting my life over again, my friend, I’d say yes to everything like that any one asked me. I missed a lot of good chances by being too modest.”
“And truthful?” laughed Kenneth.
“Let it go at modest,” said Billy smiling.