“Yes.” Myron’s voice may have sounded disgruntled, for Merriman smiled faintly and asked:
“What’s the matter? Working you too hard?”
“No, they aren’t working me at all,” replied Myron bitterly. “I mean, all I’m doing is going through a lot of stunts I learned two years ago. I guess things are sort of balled up this year. They’ve got so many candidates out there that they can’t begin to handle them all, and I dare say I’ll be just where I am in November—if I stay.”
“Cheer up,” said the other. “They’ll let you go before that.”
“But, hang it, Merriman, I’ve played the game for two years: more than that, counting when I was a kid: and I was captain of my team last year. That may not mean much to these fellows here, but at least it ought to secure me a chance to show what I can do.”
“Seems so. Doesn’t it? I mean, aren’t you getting a chance?”
“No, I’m not,” answered Myron warmly. “I’m fuddling around with about fifteen or sixteen other fellows, most of whom never saw a football until a week ago, and getting nowhere. No one pays any attention to you here. They just say ‘Report to Jones or Smith or some one’ and forget all about you.”
“Hm. Why not tell Driscoll you want a real try-out?”