“You wouldn’t,” agreed the boy. “I just invented it. I guess those fellows are frightfully hot, Wattles. There are some compensations for my enforced inactivity after all. Chasing around on a day like this would be a mite uncomfortable, eh?” “Quite, sir. Perfectly grilling, sir. But are the young gentlemen obliged to exercise so violently?” “Depends on one’s understanding of the word, Wattles. Of course they don’t actually _have_ to play, but they want to, and when you try for the team you’ve got to do what you are told to. The man over there in the white shirt is the coach, and his business is to teach those chaps how to play good football, and he has less than two months to do it. I dare say he has a bunch of last year fellows to build around, but there’s next year to think of, too, and so he has not only to develop enough players to fill up this season’s team, but must supply himself with material to draw on next fall. That means that he has to hustle from the very start, Wattles, and explains why he has those chaps there puffing so hard.” “Yes, sir. I’d no idea the game was quite so――so intensive.” The boy chuckled. “Wattles, your vocabulary is getting richer every day, isn’t it?” “Was it the wrong word, sir?” asked the man anxiously. “I understand――” “Not at all. Quite proper, in fact. I dare say the English game’s a bit less vehement, isn’t it?” “I couldn’t say that, Mister Loring. It’s played very hard, but I fancy the preparation is not quite so――so severe. I’ve seen only a few games since I left the other side, sir, and I may be wrong. I gather that the sort of football played here is quite different from the English game.” “You’ve never seen our style of football, have you? Why, yes, I think you’ll notice a difference. I dare say they’ll be putting on a scrimmage in a day or two, and you’ll have a chance to compare the two games.” “I’m sure it will be most interesting, sir.” An escaped football trickled across the running track and came to a stop a few feet from the chair. Wattles, an adventurous gleam in his eyes, started to rise, but a boy in togs was in pursuit, and, crunching across the cinders, scooped up the ball. Wattles relapsed, disappointedly, to his former composure. With the ball in one hand, the player glanced smilingly at the boy in the wheel chair. “Hello!” he said. “Pretty warm, isn’t it?” “Very,” answered Loring. There wasn’t time for more, for the rather tall youth with the nice eyes, and the pleasant, friendly smile, turned quickly, dropped the ball, met it with the instep of his right foot and jogged back toward the middle of the playing field. Loring watched the scuffed, brown leather ball arch away on a forty-yard flight, and settle into the arms of a waiting player. “That’s a fellow who spoke to me one night in the corridor, Wattles. Gave me a hand getting into that meeting room. Rather a nice, clean looking chap, isn’t he?” “Very, sir. Quite the gentleman.”