“Why, just this,” he went on presently. “Here are three of us, all pretty good fellows――speaking for the rest of you, that is. Now let’s cut out this surname nonsense. My name’s Rob, yours is Malcolm, or Mal for short, and yours is Evan. There, that’s settled.” He tossed the paper-knife down. “Now I want to show you fellows a little idea that occurred to me coming back from the office a while ago. Bring up your chairs.” “What is it?” asked Evan, exchanging an amused glance with Malcolm. “It’s an improved foot-scraper for doorsteps. It’s all well enough to get the mud off the soles of your shoes, but why not clean it off the uppers, too? Now, look here. Where’s my pad? Either of you got a pencil? Thanks. Now then!” CHAPTER V EVAN IS WARNED “What’s the name?” It was the tall youth whom Evan had begun to thoroughly detest who asked the question, and who, with note-book in hand and pencil poised, impatiently awaited an answer. “Kingsford,” replied Evan. “What age?” continued the other, looking as though he had never seen Evan before. “Fifteen.” “What class?” “Junior.” “Ever played foot-ball?” “Three years.” “Whereabouts?” “Elmira, New York.” “What position, I mean, you ninny!” “Quarter――and half, a little.” “We don’t need backs. Want to try for end?” “I suppose so; yes.” “Don’t do it if it’s going to hurt you,” sneered the other, turning away to catechise the next candidate. Evan looked after him angrily and then turned to his nearest neighbor, who happened to be Mr. George Washington Jell, resplendent in a new pair of khaki trousers which, because they had to be of generous proportions about the waist, fell ungracefully half-way to his feet. “Who’s that chap?” asked Evan. “Edgar Prentiss. He’s manager. He’s pretty much the whole show, for that matter. He and Hop are as thick as thieves, and Hop does about as Prentiss says. He’s no good; I hope he stubs his toe.” “So do I,” agreed Evan, with enthusiasm. Jelly beamed on him. “He’s a regular cad; no one likes him――except Hop. I made a good joke about him last year. Want to hear it?” “Yes,” said Evan, good-naturedly. “What was it?” “It’s a conundrum. What is a foot-ball manager? Give it up? He’s the captain’s apprentice. See? Prentiss――apprentice?” [Illustration: “‘EVER PLAYED FOOT-BALL?’”] Evan had to laugh, not so much at the joke as at Jelly’s eagerness for appreciation. “That’s all right,” he said. “What are you trying for, Jell?” “Guard――or ’most anything. But, say, don’t call me Jell; no one ever does; and it sounds funny. Besides, I don’t mind. I know I’m fat, and I can’t help it. I’d rather be fat than be a bean-pole like Prentiss.” “Ends and backs this way!” called a voice, and Evan trotted down the field to where a lad wearing a tattered light blue jersey and an air of authority was impatiently awaiting.