“I—I’d rather not, sir, if you please.”
“Rather not!” The coach stared. Watson laughed. Captain Doyle exclaimed impatiently. “Come, come, Merrill! That’s no way to act,” protested Mr. Cotting. “The school needs good material. You may not be a wonderful player now, my boy, but, for that matter, neither was your brother when I first saw him. But he buckled down and learned. You can do the same, I think. Anyhow, it’s up to you to try. Of course, if you really find you can’t make a go at it, there’s no harm done and it’s nothing against you. But you really ought to try, Merrill. You owe it to the school—and to Ginger.”
“He knows I’m a duffer, sir; he says so himself,” answered Rodney sadly.
“He does?” Mr. Cotting seemed impressed by that and looked Rodney over again doubtfully. “Well, you are fairly light, but—hang it, Merrill, you look intelligent and you’re well put together and seem healthy. You come out to-morrow and report to me. If you can’t show anything I’ll let you go. That’s a bargain, eh?”
“Very well, sir,” answered Rodney.
“Look here,” said Doyle, “if you haven’t played football where’d you get those muscles and that chest?”
“Tennis, I guess. And I’ve played baseball a little, too.”
“That settles it,” grunted Watson. “Never knew a tennis player that was any good at football. I guess the kid knows what he’s talking about, Coach.”
“We’ll see. To-morrow, then, Merrill.” The coach nodded, smiled and turned away. Doyle and Watson kept pace with him. Tad turned to Rodney indignantly.