“Three or four, I understand,” answered Meyer gravely. “If I were you I’d see Mr. Bonner, the coach, and tell him I had decided to be third halfback. Better do it before some other fellow asks for the place. He’s coming now. Better get right at it.”
“I will,” declared Monty brightly. “And I’m ever so much obliged to you. Are you one of the players?”
Meyer nodded. “I’m right and left guard,” he replied. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Crail. What is yours, please?”
“Heffelfinger. If you like, you may use my name to the coach. Just tell him Heffelfinger, Walter Heffelfinger sent you.”
“Oh, thank you! I—I think I’ve heard of you. I guess everyone has! You’re sure you don’t mind if I just say that you—you——”
“Not a bit.” Meyer waved a hand courteously. “Go as far as you like, Crail. Remember now; third halfback is what you’re after.”
“Third halfback, yes. Or maybe fourth, if someone has chosen to be third? Anyway, I’ll ask to be third first. Thank you so much, Harold.”
“No, not Harold; Walter; Walter Heffelfinger. Good-by, and don’t take any wooden money.”
Monty showed clearly that the latter advice puzzled him, but he nodded gratefully, and turned away. Meyer chuckled as he watched the other’s progress along the line in the direction of Coach Bonner. Then something in the boy’s swinging stride, or, perhaps, something in the capable poise of the head, brought suspicion back again, and the chuckle died away in his throat.