“Where do you want me?”

Blair, suppressing a smile of amusement as he looked the applicant over, asked: 

“Ever played any?”

“Some; I was right end on the Felton Grammar School team last year.”

“Where’s Felton Grammar School, please?”

“Maine, near Auburn.”

“Oh!  What’s your name?”

“Joel March.”

“Can you kick?”

“Pretty fair.”

“Well, show me what you consider pretty fair.”  He turned to the nearest squad.  “Toss me the ball a minute, Ned.  Here’s a chap who wants to try a kick.”

Ned Post threw the ball, and his squad of veterans turned to observe the odd-looking country boy toe the pigskin.  Several audible remarks were made, none of them at all flattering to the subject of them; but if the latter heard them he made no sign, but accepted the ball from Blair without fumbling it, much to the surprise of the onlookers.  Among these were Clausen and Cloud, their mouths prepared for the burst of ironical laughter that was expected to follow the country boy’s effort.

“Drop or punt?” asked the latter, as he settled the oval in a rather ample hand.

“Which can you kick best?” questioned Blair.  The youth considered a moment.

“I guess I can punt best.”  He stepped back, balancing the ball in his right hand, took a long stride forward, swung his right leg in a wide arc, dropped the ball, and sent it sailing down the field toward the distant goal.  A murmur of applause took the place of the derisive laugh, and Blair glanced curiously at the former right end-rush of the Felton Grammar School.

“Yes, that’s pretty fair.  Some day with hard practice you may make a kicker.”  Several of the older fellows smiled knowingly.  It was Blair’s way of nipping conceit in the bud.  “What class are you in?”

“Upper middle,” replied the youth under the straw hat, displaying no disappointment at the scant praise.

“Well, March, kindly go down the field to that last squad and tell Tom Warren that I sent you.  And say,” he continued, as the candidate started off, and he was struck anew with the oddity of the straw hat and wrinkled trousers, “you had better tell him that you are the man that punted that ball.”

“That chap has got to learn golf,” said Outfield West to himself as he turned away after witnessing the incident, “even if I have to hog-tie him and teach it to him.  What did he say his name was?  February?  March?  That was it.  It’s kind of a chilly name.  I’ll make it a point to scrape acquaintance with him.  He’s a born golfer.  His calm indifference when Blair tried to ‘take him down’ was beautiful to see.  He’s the sort of fellow that would smile if he made a foozle in a medal play.”

West drew a golf ball from his pocket and, throwing it on the turf, gave it a half-shot off toward the river, following leisurely after it and pondering on the possibility of making a crack golfer out of a country lad in a straw hat.