Ralph Barbour - Left End Edwards

Miller's lean, good-looking face had lighted up with enthusiasm during his recital, and, when he had ended, as though impatient to begin the campaign which was to end in the rout of the enemy, he got up and took a turn the length of the room. He didn't look the least bit in the world like a confidence-man to-night and the two boys marvelled at their earlier suspicions. Miller was tall, lean with the leanness of muscles unhampered by useless flesh, and lithe. He had very clear brown eyes, a straight nose and high cheek bones that somehow reminded Steve of the engraved portrait of John C. Calhoun that hung in the library at home. Altogether, from the top of his well-shaped head to the soles of his rubber-shod feet, he was good to look at, clean-cut, well-groomed, healthy and very much alive. Steve found himself wishing that some day he might find himself playing shoulder to shoulder with Miller. He hated to think what would happen to the enemy in such a case!

Miller paused at the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled a trifle apologetically. "Well, that's the way it is, you chaps," he went on. "So, whether you make the first or the second or neither, you keep on playing and trying. There's another year coming for you fellows; two of them, in fact. Keep that in mind, and if you don't get what you want this year keep plugging. And don't fail to come out Wednesday and do your best. You'll get a fair show and if you can play the game well enough you'll get places. Now I must run along with my bag. I'm glad to have met you chaps. If I can help you in any way don't fail to call on me. You'll find me in 7 Hensey. Come and see me anyway. Miller's the name. And, by the way, I'm glad you chaps took my little joke so decently and didn't get waxy about it. If you had, I'd probably have told it around and you'd have got a lot of joshing. As it is, no one knows it and no one will. Good-night."

And Miller, his suit-case in hand, smiled, nodded and went out. They could hear him whistling merrily until the landing door had closed behind him.

"I meant to ask him what position he played," said Steve regretfully. "I'll bet he's a corker, though!"

"I'll bet you he is," agreed Tom warmly.

"And he seemed a rattling good sort, too, didn't he?"

"Yes. And I'm glad I lost my bag. If I hadn't we mightn't have known him, seeing that he's a Sixth Form fellow."

"I guess he's sort of prominent," mused Tom. "He gives you the idea of being someone, doesn't he?"

"Oh, he's someone, all right! Do you think he really wants us to call on him, Tom? Or—or was he just being polite?"

"Both, I guess. I don't suppose we'd better call unless he asks us again. We don't want to act fresh, you know. Besides," and Tom smiled mischievously, "I'm not sure we ought to associate with him."

"Why not?" asked Steve incredulously.

"Well, seeing that he's a confidence-man–"

After breakfast the next morning, a breakfast eaten with excellent appetites, the two boys set out on a sightseeing tour about the school. They went first to the gymnasium. The big front door was locked, but Steve was not to be denied and eventually gained entrance through a little door at the rear which led into the boiler-room and from there found their way into the main basement where were situated the big swimming tank, a commodious baseball cage and a bowling alley. On the floor above they found themselves in a square hall, entered from the front door, from which other doors led to the gymnasium, the locker and bathrooms and a small office bearing the sign "Physical Director." From the hall a fireproof stairway ascended with a turn to the running-track and a large room which was evidently used as a meeting hall. Settees were neatly arranged in front of a platform, a row of low windows admitted a flood of morning sunshine and against the walls hung many photographs of athletic teams. Most of them showed groups of track and field men, although a few were of hockey sevens and there were three football teams in evidence. The explorers paid more attention to these photographs than the others, and Steve, whose patriotism was already strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour.

"Huh!" he grumbled. "'Brimfield 0; Claflin 12'; 'Brimfield 3; Claflin 11'; 'Brimfield 6; Claflin 9.' Bet you next time it'll be some different, Tom!"

"Rather!" said Tom stoutly. "Let's go on down and see the gym."

They tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of the steel lockers.

"The fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared Steve approvingly. "Some of these lockers have got things in them," he continued, peeping into one. "There's a bat in here, and a towel and some clothes."

Tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment and now summoned Steve to join him. There was a high table in the centre of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held numerous bottles and boxes. "It's the rubbing room," said Steve. "Here, get busy, Tom!" And he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on his back.

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "Where's it hurt you? This the spot?"

And Tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of Steve's ribs that the latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. It was at that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them.

"Beat it, you fresh kids! You've got no business in here!"

The speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. He had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. He was standing in the doorway and his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped knickerbockers. Somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he reminded Tom of a clown at a circus, and Tom made the mistake of grinning. The big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face.

"Wipe it off!" he said threateningly.

Steve and Tom looked at the table.

"Wipe what off?" asked Tom, at a loss.

"Wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "And get out of here, both of you, and stay out. If you don't, I'll throw you out!"

This somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances between the culprits. Neither Steve nor Tom were quarrelsome, nor had they had more than a boy's usual share of fist battles, but the bullying speech and attitude of the round-faced youth was so uncalled for and exasperating that Steve's temper got the better of him for the moment.

"We weren't doing any harm here," he declared indignantly. "And we'll get out, but we're not afraid of you, even if you have got piano legs!"

The big fellow pulled his hands from his pockets with an angry growl and, clenching his fists, strode toward the boys. But at that instant footsteps sounded in the locker room, and the bully's hands dropped and he turned his head toward the door just as a small, red-haired and freckle-faced little Irishman came into sight.

"Hello, Eric the Red," he said jovially. "An' what might you be doin' down here, me boy?"

"I'm telling these fresh kids to get out of here," replied the youth. "Any objections?"

The little Irishman seemed surprised, and he smiled, but the boys noted that his small and rather greenish eyes narrowed.

"None at all, at all, me boy. If I had I'd very soon tell you, d'ye see? But what harm are they doin'? Sure, if I don't mind them bein' here, why would you?"

"They haven't any business in this room, and you know it, Danny. They're too fresh, anyway."