“No, sir, that is, not well.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, sir. I’ll be sixteen next January.”
“You’ve got lots of time then. You’d better come out to-morrow and let me see how bad you are.” He smiled encouragingly.
“I’m pretty bad,” answered Rodney. “And I don’t care much for football,” he added apologetically.
“Nonsense!” This was Captain Doyle, and he spoke impatiently. “You don’t expect us to believe that Ginger Merrill’s brother isn’t a born football player. Where have you played?”
“At home, Orleans, Nebraska.”
“I mean what position, Merrill.”
“Oh, guard and tackle. I’ve never played much. I’m—I’m no good at it, sir.”
“Well, you haven’t any objection to proving it to us, have you?” asked the coach with a laugh. “You come out to-morrow, Merrill.”