“Guess he was quarter-back,” said Martin, “for he usually ran the game!”
Bob shifted his feet and stretched. “Guess I’ll walk through and see if any of the fellows are aboard,” he said. “Want to come along, Joe?”
“Sure.” Joe arose with alacrity and joined Bob in the aisle, and they made their way forward. Martin, left alone with the new acquaintance, gazed wistfully after his friends and then, with a sigh, put his feet where Bob had sat and prepared to make polite conversation. Martin Proctor was seventeen, rather thick-set and had a round face from which a pair of brown eyes viewed the world with quizzical good humor. Just now the good humor was slightly obscured, for he wasn’t keen on entertaining this strange youth who preferred Kenly Hall to Alton Academy. However, conversation progressed well enough, once started, and presently Martin forgot his hostility.
Meanwhile Joe and Bob had come to anchor in a seat in the smoking car ahead. “It’s he, all right,” announced Bob triumphantly.
Joe nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.”
“I don’t guess; I know! Wasn’t Harmon’s name Gordon Harmon?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s the name on his bag. I looked when he was talking to you. Gordon Edward Harmon’s his name!”
Joe shrugged. “I wonder how they got him, Bob,” he said.
“You heard his yarn, didn’t you?” replied Bob, chuckling.