“Impossible!” Mr. Kincaid clicked his tongue. “Dear, dear! And may I ask—” He paused and peered intently. “Just hold the football up a moment, please, Lovell. Ah, thank you. For the instant I had you confused. Yes, I see. The football is the one with the look of intelligence. As I was saying—”
But what he was saying was lost in the laughter, laughter in which Bus joined only half-heartedly. Mr. Kincaid looked over the class and blinked in gentle reproof. “As I was saying,” he continued, “I am curious to know why you find it impossible to do without your affinity for a mere half-hour or so, Lovell. I hope I am not too inquisitive.”
“Mr. Cade’s orders, sir,” answered Bus with relief. “I have to take it everywhere, sir.”
“Ah, really? An extension course in Football, I presume. Remarkable what strides that game is making, isn’t it? Is there more to your story?”
Bus explained the situation and Mr. Kincaid listened with undisguised interest. And at the end he settled back and said: “Well, well, what a very clever idea of Mr. Cade’s! I shall be anxious to hear how it succeeds, Lovell. And now, having exhausted, not unprofitably I’m sure, some seven minutes of our allotted time, we will turn our attention to less weighty matters.”
Whether or not it was due to the football and its accompanying complications, the fact is that Bus was but illy prepared on the subject of Greek History and, as Mr. Kincaid was flatteringly attentive and called on him very frequently, made a poor showing. Just before the gong rang the instructor stepped down from the platform. He held a book in his hand and he stopped in front of Bus. “Lovell,” he announced, “I regret to say that out of six questions sent your way you fumbled four. To be sure, you may fairly be said to have recovered one, but nevertheless the loss of ground was considerable. On one occasion, if you recall, you lost almost a third of Greece! Fumbling, Lovell, is a—ah—most reprehensible failing, and we must do our utmost to correct it. Taking a leaf from the book of a greater master, certainly a more successful instructor, than myself, Lovell, I intrust this volume to you. It is, as you will observe, my own copy of West’s Ancient World, Part One. You will find my name on the fly-leaf. I should dislike having anything happen to it, so please guard it tenderly. Don’t let it out of your sight, Lovell. Take it with you to recitations and reflections, let it accompany you wherever you go, Lovell, especially to the football field. At night place it beside you while you slumber. Constant companionship, continued proximity, Lovell, will, I sincerely trust, cure you of your lamentable habit of fumbling the facts of Greek History. Class dismissed.”
Bus remained behind for a minute after his convulsed class-mates had hurried forth, but it was no use. Mr. Kincaid meant just what he had said, as absolutely ridiculous as it all was! Bus departed with the football bobbing from his neck and West’s Ancient World clutched desperately in one hand. He tried putting it into a pocket, but it was just too large for that. In the corridor the news was already circulating, and Bus was made to pause and exhibit his latest incubus until, patience exhausted, he tore himself from detaining hands and fled. In his room he flung the book distastefully away from him, only to rescue it in a panic, fearful that he had harmed it. Then he put it on the table and glowered at it until, presently, a sense of humor came to his aid and he gave a chuckle. Somewhere, he recollected, his room-mate had a canvas haversack, and he searched until he unearthed it. In it he placed Mr. West’s masterpiece and adjusted the straps to his shoulders. Finally he surveyed himself in the mirror. Just what he resembled, with the haversack on his back and the football against his stomach, he couldn’t decide, but, at least, he looked different! Fortunately, perhaps, he had but one more recitation before dinner and one after, and at neither of them was he asked to explain his singular likeness to a peddler, for the story had reached even to the ears of the faculty. At dinner his arrival in hall was even a greater personal triumph than last evening, but he didn’t mind the razzing a bit. Being the sensation of the hour was compensation enough!
To Mr. Cade, who dwelt outside the campus, the tidings had not reached, and so at three-thirty, when Bus paraded onto the field, trailed by a throng of expectant team-mates, the coach was not prepared for the spectacle. Bus was appropriately attired in gray canvas pants, gray jersey, gray-and-gold striped stockings, scuffed shoes and hip pads, and he swung a black leather head guard. But he also wore a battered football in front and a mildewed canvas bag at his back, a bag on which appeared in faded black characters the inscription “Troop II, B.S.A.” Bus invited notice and won it instantly.
“Lovell, you might rid yourself of that football during practice,” said Mr. Cade, laughing a little.
“Yes, sir.” Bus moved toward the wheelbarrow, where the balls awaited distribution in a big canvas sack, thereby presenting a rear view to the coach. Mr. Cade stared. Wide grins overspread the faces of the players.