“I don’t see that, Clyde. I mean I don’t see where you come in on it. You say you’re responsible for me, but of course you aren’t; not really.” “It amounts to that,” Clyde persisted. “You know mighty well that if I hadn’t――well, if I hadn’t done a certain thing a couple of years ago, you wouldn’t be here at all. I can’t help feeling responsible. Besides, your folks as good as put you in my charge.” “Well, all right. That means you’d rather I didn’t report this afternoon?” Clyde considered. Finally he shook his head. “You’ll have to,” he said. “The Major will raise Cain if you don’t. You shouldn’t have agreed to play, Barry; but you did agree and now you’ll have to go through with it. Only, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll quit the first chance you get. It oughtn’t to be very hard to show the Major that you aren’t football material!” “I guess that’s so,” Barry agreed. “I didn’t realize you’d be so set against it, Clyde, or I wouldn’t have done it. Although,” he added reflectively, “I don’t see just how I could have helped it.” Clyde was magnanimous. “Well, don’t let it trouble you, Barry. I dare say you couldn’t have done any different. The Major’s a hard guy to say ‘no’ to! Mind you, I’d say, ‘Hang on,’ if I thought there was any chance for you, but you know there isn’t. You aren’t the type for football, old chap.” Barry didn’t say ‘yes’ to that; but he was relieved by his friend’s return to good humor and didn’t want to offer any opinion likely to disturb it again, so he left the last word with Clyde and hurried off to a Latin class. He had brought the remains of the previous season’s football togs to Broadmoor, and at three o’clock he got into them. Peaches, watching, declared that he looked exactly like Pete Zosker, only more noble. As Pete weighed sixty pounds more than Barry, the statement indicated an active imagination. Barry found Sampson, the manager, gave his name, class, age, weight, and a few other details, and became automatically a member of the Broadmoor School football squad. Ira Haviland was in charge of the back-field candidates, of which there appeared to be at least twenty. Haviland was a tall, rather heavy First-Class fellow with a shock of almost black hair and a voice like a good-natured fog-horn. He greeted Barry with a glance of swift appraisal and a careless: “Yeah, Coach told me about you. Push in with that bunch yonder, Locke.” The day’s work consisted of the usual kindergarten duties. There were passing and starting, tackling-drill, and, finally, signal-drill in which Barry didn’t take part.