Myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to the second team gridiron and set to work. Four other awkward squads adorned the field, the nearer one being under the care of Charles Cummins. Myron smiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which Cummins regarded him. When their glances met Cummins nodded shortly. To put his class through the third lesson was no trick for Myron, but it was dreary and tiresome work. It seemed to him that Coach Driscoll must have deliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for of all the awkward squads Myron had ever had anything to do with his was the awkwardest. But some few presently began to respond to treatment and by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging knees and elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on the trickling pigskin he felt that he hadn’t done so badly with them. He didn’t say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that too much instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither did he try to impress them with their stupidity. As a result, most of them eventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions. Watching, Myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into the face of Cummins, who, giving his own charges a moment of rest, had walked across unnoticed.
“How do you like it?” Cummins inquired shortly.
“There are other things I’d rather be doing,” replied Myron. He didn’t feel particularly friendly toward this chap who had badgered him so a day or two before, and his tone showed it. A smile flickered around the corners of Cummins’ mouth.
“Main thing,” he said gravely, “is to be patient with them. I find that pays best.”
Myron turned and looked at him wonderingly. “That sounds well,” he replied sarcastically. Cummins grinned.
“Got it in for me, haven’t you?” he said. “Don’t blame you—er—Whatever Your Name Is. I was never cut out for a teacher. Besides, I want to get to work myself. What’s your line? Tackle?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I get, I suppose. Try that again, you chap. Get started quicker. I played half-back last year.”
“Guard’s my game. Well, I guess I’d better go back and hound those fellows some more. See you again, Foster, if I live.”
Myron wondered why Cummins had pretended not to recall his name at first. “Just to be as disagreeable as possible, I guess,” he concluded. Cummins’ hectoring voice floated across the field just then: “All right, my hearties! Line up again and, for the love of limes, look intelligent if you can’t act so!”