him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for
practice
But two days after the Miter Hill game an incident occurred which proved
him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for
practice. That morning’s Greek had gone unusually badly for Clint and
Mr. Simkins had kept him after class and talked some plain talk to him.
When Clint’s final recitation of the day was over at three he was
out-of-sorts and depressed. He felt very little like playing football
and still less like studying, but Mr. Simkins had as much as told him
that unless a decided improvement was at once apparent some direful fate
would be his, and the instructor had a convincing way of talking and
Clint quite believed him. Consequently, of two evils Clint chose the
more necessary and dedicated that afternoon to the Iliad. The dormitory
was very quiet, for it was a fine, mild day and most of the fellows were
out-of-doors, and concentration should have been easy. But it wasn’t.
Clint couldn’t keep his mind on his book, try as he might. Through the
open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field; shouts, the
honking of Manager Black’s horn, the cries of the coaches and players,
the crack of bat and ball where the Nine was holding Fall practice;
even, now and then, the voices of the tennis players far down the field.
He tried closing the window, but that made the room hot and stuffy, and
he opened it again. Four o’clock sounded and he was still dawdling. Then
footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door of Number 13 opened and shut,
and a minute or two later the wailing of Penny Durkin’s violin broke
onto the silence of the deserted dormitory. That ought to have ended
Clint’s chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had
listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of
him and then–well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was
silent and someone was knocking on his door!
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“Of course. Well, don’t you see, Clint, he’d ought to know what he’s
talking about?”
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Clint drew a sheet of paper from the blue envelope. On it was pasted a
short newspaper clipping and above the clipping was written in the
principal’s minute writing: “Thought you’d like to see this. J.L.F.”
Clint read the clipping:
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“Half, when I play,” laughed the other. “I’m going to make a good fight
for it this year. How’d you know I did play, though?”
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“I must drop around some time and hear him perform,” laughed the coach.
“He must be something of a character.” Amy agreed that he was, and
narrated two or three anecdotes concerning Penny to prove it. Mr.
Detweiler evidently found Amy’s discourse amusing and drew him out until
he was in the full flood of his eloquence. But when they had been there
a half hour or so their host abruptly switched the conversation.
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“I hear that Still is fairly punk this Fall,” said Amy. “Too bad, too,
for he was a dandy man last year. He had some sort of sickness in the
Summer, Freer tells me. Still never said anything about it for fear he’d
lose his place.”
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