“Yes, and it ought to have been turned around, for they played us to a standstill in the second half. Driscoll’s firm for starting with a second-string line, but I don’t like it. That Musket Hill coach is a fox. If they get a score on us in the first quarter we’ll be lucky to pass them.”
“They play hard ball, and that’s no joke,” agreed Keene. “I hope he pulls me out before Grafton gets in.”
“What’s the matter with Graf?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t seem to get on with him. I think he plays too much for the centre of the line. There’s always a hole there and I get about two yards more of territory to look after. You keep your place, but Grafton sort of wanders in.”
“Glad you spoke of it,” answered Jud. “I’ll watch him. Going over?”
Up to a half-hour after supper Myron was convinced that he had no intention of visiting Cummins that evening. Cummins was a lot more decent than he had thought him, in fact a rather likable fellow, but he had a disagreeable way of saying things that—well, didn’t need to be said. Besides, there was something almost indecent in telling another that you liked him and asking him to be pals! Even if Cummins had taken a fancy to him, as he declared, at least he might have kept it to himself. But when supper was over and Myron had turned on the steam in Number 17—the evenings were getting decidedly chilly now—and settled himself to write a letter home, Cummins’ freckled countenance insisted on obtruding itself between him and the sheet of grey, yellow-monogrammed paper. Joe had not returned to the room and, when the letter was written and he had brushed up on Latin and math., he would be pretty well bored, he supposed. He got as far as “Dear Mother and Father: I didn’t get this letter written yesterday because I was very busy——” Then, after trying to recall what he had been busy with and fiddling with the self-filling device on his pen for a good ten minutes, he gave it up. He guessed he’d walk over and hear what Cummins’ plan was. Not that it interested him any, but he didn’t feel like writing just now.
Cummins himself answered Myron’s knock, although the battered door of Number 16 bore not only his card but that of “Guy Henry Brown,” to the end of which name some facetious person had added the letters “D.D.” Brown, who played right half on the first team, was not at home, however, and Cummins, stretched out along the window-seat, was the sole occupant of the room. The room served as study and chamber both, and a narrow, white-enamelled bed stood against the wall on each side. The rest of the furnishings were nondescript and had evidently seen long service. A few posters adorned the painted walls and the carpet was so threadbare in places that one had to guess at the original pattern and hue. Nevertheless, there was a comfortable and home-like look to Number 16 which Myron acknowledged. Cummins tore himself from the book he was reading with unflattering deliberateness and indicated a shabby automatic rocking-chair.
“Try the Nerve Dispeller,” he invited. “So called because when used your own nerves leave you and go to the other chap, who has to watch you rock. It’s all right; it won’t go over; that’s just its playful way.”
“What were you reading?” asked Myron, by way of conversation.
Chas held the book up and the visitor was surprised to see that it was what he mentally called “a kid’s story.”