Toby obeyed, wonderingly.
“Thought so! It’s red, isn’t it?”
Toby flushed and swallowed hard. Then: “Brown, sir,” he answered firmly. The coach laughed.
“Brown, is it? All right, Tucker, my mistake. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” murmured Toby, forgivingly.
“Oh, I wasn’t apologizing,” retorted the coach, dryly. “I meant that I was sorry it wasn’t red. You see, Tucker, I have a theory that a goal-tend ought to have red hair.”
Toby looked his surprise. “Why, sir?” he asked.
“Because, Tucker, it has been my experience that fellows with red hair are fighters. When I played football I always looked the other team over for red-heads and if I saw one I kept close tabs on him. I don’t think I ever saw one yet that didn’t bear a lot of watching. Now you know why I’m a little disappointed in your case. Just at first, when you took your cap off, I thought there was a reddish tinge to your hair. Probably it was due to the sunset or the reflection from the snow or something.”
There wasn’t any sunset, or, if there was, it wasn’t visible, and it was so nearly twilight that to talk of reflection from the snow was nonsense. Toby glanced at the coach suspiciously, but Mr. Loring’s face looked quite guileless.
“It’s always been a sorrow in my young life,” went on the coach meaningly, “that I didn’t have red hair. I’d have done a heap better at everything, I guess.”