“Bendix was right, too,” said Tom. “Gerald’s too young and weak to tackle football.”
“He’s fifteen,” objected Alf, “and, as for being weak, well, I know he handed me some nasty jabs in the gym last week when we boxed. They didn’t feel weak.”
“His father didn’t want him to play this fall,” said Dan, “and I’m glad he’s not going to. If he got hurt, Mr. Pennimore would sort of hold me to blame, I guess.”
“Glad I’m not responsible for that kid,” laughed Alf. “You’ll have your hands full by next year, Dan.”
“Oh, he will be able to look after himself pretty soon, I fancy. They haven’t started yet; let’s get a move on.”
They hurried their pace past the station and across the bridge which spans the river just beyond and connects Wissining with Greenburg. Anyone meeting them would, I think, have given them more than a second glance, for one doesn’t often encounter three finer examples of the American schoolboy. Dan Vinton was in his second year at Yardley Hall School and was sixteen years of age. He was tall and somewhat lean, although by lean I don’t mean what he himself would have called “skinny.” He had brown eyes, at once steady and alert, a very straight, well-formed nose, a strong chin and a mouth that usually held a quiet smile. He was in the Second Class this year and, like his companions, was a member of the football team, playing at right end.
Alfred Loring was eighteen, a member of the First Class, captain of the eleven and of the hockey team. He was scarcely an inch taller than Dan, in spite of his advantage in age, and, like Dan, hadn’t an ounce of superfluous flesh on his well-built frame. He had a merry, careless face, snapping dark brown eyes, an aquiline nose and hair which he wore parted in the middle and brushed closely to his head. He was as good a quarter-back as Yardley had ever had and this year, with Alf at the head of the team, the school expected great things.
Tom Dyer, his roommate, was a big, rangy, powerful-looking chap, rather silent, rather sleepy looking, with features that didn’t make for beauty. But he had nice gray eyes and a pleasant smile and was one of the best-hearted fellows in school. Tom was captain of the basket-ball team, a First Class man and in age was Alf’s senior by two months. All three of them were dressed in old trousers and sweaters that had seen much use, and all three wore on the backs of their heads the little dark-blue caps with the white Y’s that in school heraldry proclaimed them members of the Yardley Hall Football Team.
A short distance beyond the bridge, on the outskirts of Greenburg, they joined a throng of some eighty or ninety boys. Of this number some thirty or so were attired for running and were engaged in keeping warm by walking or trotting around in circles or slapping their legs. The trio responded to greetings as they pushed through the crowd. Andy Ryan, the little sandy-haired, green-eyed trainer, was in charge of the proceedings and was calling names from a list which he held in his hand.
“All right now, byes,” he announced. “You know the way. The first twelve to finish will get places. Get ready and I’ll send you off.”