“Forty-six,” answered Farnsworth.
“That all? Anyway, this Foster chap made a heady catch, with two ends almost on him and the ball nearly over his head. He’ll round out nicely for next year, I guess.”
It was Myron’s misfortune that he had elected to try for a half-back position at a time when there was much excellent half-back material on hand. Probably he didn’t realise the fact, for he began to get more disgruntled by the end of that week and secretly accused Mr. Driscoll and Jud Mellen of “playing favourites.” Not altogether secretly, either, for he once aired his suspicions for Joe’s benefit. “There’s no chance for a chap here unless he’s known,” he said bitterly. “Maybe if I stay here two or three years longer Driscoll will discover that I’m alive. As it is, if it wasn’t for Farnsworth keeping tabs on the fellows, I could cut practice and no one would ever know it.”
“Well, I don’t know,” answered Joe judicially. “It looks to me like you were getting the same treatment the rest of ’em are getting. Some day you’ll show ’em what you can do and they’ll wake up. I guess your trouble is that you’re bucking against a lot of good backs. Take fellows like Brown and Meldrum and Vance, now. They’re good. You’ve got to hand it to them, kiddo. Corking halves, all of them. Hard to beat. But that don’t mean that you can’t beat ’em. Buckle down and go hard, Foster. The season’s young yet.”
“I’m not anxious enough,” answered Myron, “to kill myself. I dare say I can get along without playing on the team this year. And next year I’ll go somewhere where they give a fellow a fair chance, by George!”
“Well, if that’s your idea you won’t get far,” said Joe drily. “If you don’t care yourself no one’s going to care for you. A guy’s got to hustle and be in earnest to get anywhere in this world. I know that!”
“You fell into it pretty soft,” answered Myron, with a laugh that sounded none too agreeable. “There’s nothing like getting in with the right crowd, eh?”
Joe regarded him with a frown, started to speak, thought better of it and merely grunted. But after a moment he said dispassionately: “Don’t be a sore-head, Foster. It don’t get you anything but hard looks.”
“I’m no sore-head,” laughed the other carelessly. “Gee, it doesn’t mean anything in my young life to play with their old football team. I’ve captained a better team than this school will ever turn out!”
“If I was you,” replied Joe earnestly, “I’d forget about being captain of that team, kiddo, and see if I couldn’t make a first-class private of myself.”