“Yes, I had a try at it. I was on the second about three weeks and then they dropped me and I played on my class team. It was lots of fun, but it took too much time.”
“Yes, it does take time,” granted Crowell. “When I started in in my second year I was in trouble with the office all the time.”
“I’d certainly like to be able to play it the way you do,” said Toby admiringly. “I guess it takes a lot of practice, though.”
“Oh, I’m not much good at it,” responded Crowell, modestly. “Did you see the Broadwood game?”
“No, I didn’t have time. And it cost too much. I wanted to, though. I’ll see it next year, when they play here.”
Crowell had been studying the younger boy interestedly while they talked and liked what he saw. There was something very competent in the youngster’s looks, and the blue eyes expressed a fearlessness that, taken in conjunction with the determination shown by the square chin, argued results. He had a round, somewhat tanned face, a short nose and hair that, as before hinted, only just escaped being red instead of brown. (It didn’t do to more than hint regarding the color of Toby Tucker’s hair, for Toby was touchy on the subject and had fought more than one battle to emphasize the fact that it was distinctly brown and could not by any stretch of imagination be termed red!) For the rest, Toby was well built, healthy and strong, and rather larger than most boys of his age.
“Look here,” said Crowell suddenly. “How are you at skating, Tucker?”
“Oh, I can skate.”
“Done much of it?”
“Yes, I skate a lot, but I don’t know much fancy business.”