"You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long, muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?"
"A little."
Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a football tucked under his arm.
"Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he punts? I wouldn't go too far."
Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or the excitement out of his furrowed face.
"Enough," the trainer said at last.
George heard him confide to the puffing tutor:
"Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall, especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught."
Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him an irreparable wrong.
"Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit."