“I――I thought there was Dartmouth and Harvard,” Kendall had replied hesitatingly, and Dana had knitted his brows and shaken his head. “Never heard of ’em,” he had answered. And his three companions had agreed, chuckling. Finally Kendall had guessed that they were having fun with him, something they were in the habit of having. But before they had left Dana had spoken quite seriously to Kendall. “Kid,” he had said, “you work for a prep school and college. Make your folks send you to Yardley and then to Yale. It isn’t altogether what you learn out of books; it’s the friends you make and the self-reliance you get. When the time comes you let me know; just tell me you’re ready for Yardley and I’ll help you along. You’re a bright kid, and nobody’s fool, and you’re the sort of fellow Yardley wants.” They were all of them, it seemed, on the football team, and all in strict summer training. The amount of eggs and steak and milk that they devoured during the eight weeks of their stay was something amazing. Every afternoon they produced two oval, brown leather balls and went through remarkable proceedings in the meadow behind the barn. Strange as it may seem, Kendall had never seen a football before, although he had indistinct recollections of having heard or read somewhere of the game. He looked on absorbedly and was as proud as a peacock when, one day, he was allowed to kick one of the illusive objects. They got a good deal of fun out of his attempts at first, but it wasn’t long before he had discovered the knack, and they professed themselves impressed with his ability. “The kid’s cut out for a kicker,” declared Dana. “Those long legs of his were just made for football. Kid, you keep it up, do you hear? Some day you’ll be a crackerjack kicker if you do.”