“Why can’t he see that I deserve one? It isn’t my place to select his players for him!”
“N-no, but if there are so many candidates that he’s likely to overlook you——”
Merriman was interrupted by the entrance of Joe Dobbins. It was well after nine and Joe thought he was privileged to return home. Finding Merriman still there, however, he hesitated at the door. “Hello! I thought you were through, Foster. I’ll beat it.”
“We are through,” said Merriman. “I’m going myself in a minute.”
“Oh, all right. Don’t let me scare you away, though.”
Myron performed the introduction and the two boys shook hands.
“Glad to know you,” said Joe heartily. “Any guy who knows enough Latin to teach it to others can have my vote every time!”
Myron frowned. He wished that Joe wouldn’t talk so much like a rowdy, and he glanced at Merriman to see how that youth had taken his room-mate’s breeziness. Apparently Merriman was neither pained nor surprised. Instead, he was regarding Joe with smiling interest. “Thanks,” he said, “but being able to teach Latin to others doesn’t amount to much, Dobbins. When the other fellow knows a little less about any subject than you do you can trust a lot to bluff.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” exclaimed Joe, flinging himself into a chair. “Look at Foster there. He’s been teaching a lot of poor dubs how to catch a football, and I dare say they think he invented the game!” He winked at the visitor and grinned at Myron. The latter, however, was not feeling kindly enough toward Joe to take the joke gracefully. He flushed and scowled.
“I dare say I know as much football as some fellows who played this afternoon,” he said huffily.