“Do I think—” Rob stopped and chuckled. Evan flushed.
“What’s the matter? I’ve played a good deal, and I dare say I know as much about it as—as lots of fellows here.”
“As I do, you were going to say,” laughed Rob. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Kingsford. I dare say you can play better than a good many fellows on the team, but I don’t think your chances are very bright, and if you ask me why,—well, I can only say because the Riverport Eleven is what Dad would call a close corporation.”
“What’s that?”
[“‘I PLAY FOOT-BALL,’ ANSWERED EVAN. ‘I WANT TO TRY FOR THE TEAM HERE.’”]
“I’ll try again,” said Rob, thrusting his hands in his pockets and falling into the queer drawl which he affected at times. “The team is like a very select club, Kingsford. If you know enough about foot-ball to kick the ball instead of biting it, and stand pretty well with—er—the manager or captain or some of the members, you can make it. Of course they’re always glad to have you go out and ‘try for the team’; it looks well and sort of adds interest. And of course you’re supposed to subscribe toward expenses. And when the team goes away anywhere to play, they allow you to go along and yell yourself hoarse. But don’t think for a moment, my friend, that you can make the team here by just playing good ball.”
“That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” said Evan, with a frown. “Especially as I don’t know a single fellow here—except you.”