"On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I--Jerry's our hired man--we used to get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our grammar-school eleven."
"Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like that! Say, what's your name?"
"Joel March."
"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"
"Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a few houses. We've lived there--our family, I mean--for over a hundred years."
"Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I was a bit lame after that tumble."
The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.
"Where's your room?" asked West.
"Thirty-four Masters Hall," answered Joel March; for now that we have twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer ignore his name.
"Mine's in Hampton House," said West. "Number 2. I have it all to myself. Who's in with you?"