Left Half Harmon. Barbour Ralph Henry

slightly puzzled and so Joe explained. “Alton Academy, you know. That’s twelve miles this side of Lakeville. We play you fellows at football and baseball and so on.”

      “Oh, I see. Maybe I’ll see you again some time then.”

      The purchaser in front hurried away and he turned from Joe to the ticket seller. A minute or so later, when the three were walking along the platform, they again overtook the stranger, and Joe said smilingly: “If you’re looking for a parlor car, there isn’t one.”

      “Thanks, I thought maybe it was up ahead.”

      “Not on this train. Better come and sit with us and we’ll turn a seat over.”

      Fortunately for that project, the car they entered was no more than half filled, and soon, having stowed their suitcases in the rack overhead, they settled down, Bob and Martin taking the front seat and Joe and the stranger the other, the latter placing his kit-bag, which was too large for the rack, between his feet. As soon as they were settled the train started.

      “By the way,” said Joe, “my name’s Myers, and this is Newhall and this is Proctor.”

      The other acknowledged the introductions with a smile. “Very glad to know you,” he said. “My name’s Harmon.”

      “Joe says you’re going to Kenly,” observed Bob, trying hard to keep pity out of his voice.

      “Yes, I’m just entering.” There was an embarrassed silence after that while the train rumbled its way through the tunnel. Then:

      “Well, everyone to his taste,” murmured Martin. Joe frowned rebukingly and Martin grinned back.

      “Guess you chaps don’t think much of Kenly,” said Harmon with a laugh.

      “Oh, don’t pay any attention to Mart,” said Bob. “Kenly’s all right, I guess. She licked us last year, 14 to 6. Beat us at hockey, too.”

      “That’s right,” agreed Martin, though it evidently hurt him. “Kenly’s going to have a good team this year, too, I hear.”

      “Is she?” Harmon didn’t seem vastly interested.

      “Guess you play football, don’t you?” asked Bob. “A fellow back there said you made a corking tackle of that thief!”

      “I’ve played some.”

      Joe started. “Did you say your name was Harmon?” he demanded almost brusquely. The other nodded inquiringly. “Did you go to Schuyler High last year?” pursued Joe. Harmon nodded again. Joe shot a meaningful look at Bob and Martin. Bob answered with a slow wink, but Martin looked puzzled. Joe relapsed into thoughtful silence, and conversation ceased for a minute or two. When the train emerged from the tunnel, however, Joe settled himself further into his corner, which enabled him to see his seat companion without turning his head so far, and asked: “If it isn’t too personal, Harmon, how did you happen to decide on Kenly Hall?”

      Harmon looked the least bit surprised, but he answered unhesitatingly. “My brother was going to Kenly,” he explained. “Then he decided he’d quit school and join the Navy. So I just thought I might as well go where he’d started for. Guess that was the way it happened. I don’t really know much about the place. Dare say, if I’d heard of your school first I’d have gone there.”

      “Gee, I wish you had!” said Joe in heartfelt tones.

      Harmon viewed him bewilderedly. Then he laughed with a suggestion of embarrassment. “Thanks,” he murmured. “Guess your school isn’t missing much, though.” He turned his gaze and busied himself with getting his ticket ready for the conductor. Bob, opposite, viewed him with flattering attention. He saw a boy of apparently seventeen years, well if not heavily built, with clean-cut features, quiet gray-blue eyes and brown hair. He was not particularly good-looking, but his somewhat serious and self-confident expression would have brought a second glance from anyone. Then, too, when he smiled he looked very likable. Bob’s thought was, as he turned his gaze away: “Thinks well of himself, but doesn’t put on any airs. Doesn’t do much talking, but thinks a lot. Looks like he’d be mighty shifty on his feet and pretty hard to stop if he once got started.”

      When the conductor had taken their tickets and gone on, Bob said: “I suppose you’ll be going out for the Kenly team, Harmon.”

      “I think I’ll have to try for it, but I guess I won’t stand much of a show.” Harmon smiled deprecatingly.

      Bob frowned slightly. It was all right, he reflected, to be modest, but there was no sense in being a humbug! Joe laughed. “Oh, I dare say you’ll get by,” he said, faintly ironic. After a moment he added lightly: “If they turn you down, come over to us. I’ll promise you a place!”

      Harmon smiled politely, and Bob leaned across to him. “Better take him up, Harmon,” he said. “Joe’s our captain, you know.”

      Harmon looked with slightly more interest at Joe. “Really?” he asked. “I’ll have to remember your offer then.” But the joking tone in his voice indicated that he wasn’t taking the suggestion very seriously. While his head was turned, Bob surreptitiously reversed the leather tag that hung from the handle of the kit-bag at his feet. Behind the little celluloid window the named stared out distinctly:

      Gordon Edward Harmon.

      “Yes, we’re both guards,” Joe was saying when Bob sank back in his seat again. “In fact, all three of us are, for that’s Proctor’s position, too.”

      “Oh, I’m only a sub,” disclaimed Martin, “one of the ‘also-rans.’”

      “‘The Three Guardsmen,’” laughed Harmon. “I guess I read about you fellows once.”

      “Wasn’t there a fourth one?” asked Bob. “I never could see why that fellow Dumas called the story ‘The Three Guardsmen.’”

      “That’s right,” said Martin. “D’Artagnan made the fourth.”

      “Maybe D’Artagnan was a back,” suggested Joe, chuckling.

      “Guess he was quarter-back,” said Martin, “for he usually ran the game!”

      Bob shifted his feet and stretched. “Guess I’ll walk through and see if any of the fellows are aboard,” he said. “Want to come along, Joe?”

      “Sure.” Joe arose with alacrity and joined Bob in the aisle, and they made their way forward. Martin, left alone with the new acquaintance, gazed wistfully after his friends and then, with a sigh, put his feet where Bob had sat and prepared to make polite conversation. Martin Proctor was seventeen, rather thick-set and had a round face from which a pair of brown eyes viewed the world with quizzical good humor. Just now the good humor was slightly obscured, for he wasn’t keen on entertaining this strange youth who preferred Kenly Hall to Alton Academy. However, conversation progressed well enough, once started, and presently Martin forgot his hostility.

      Meanwhile Joe and Bob had come to anchor in a seat in the smoking car ahead. “It’s he, all right,” announced Bob triumphantly.

      Joe nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.”

      “I don’t guess; I know! Wasn’t Harmon’s name Gordon Harmon?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, that’s the name on his bag. I looked when he was talking to you. Gordon Edward Harmon’s his name!”

      Joe shrugged. “I wonder how they got him, Bob,” he said.

      “You heard his yarn, didn’t you?” replied Bob, chuckling.

      “Yes, and I believed it – not! I’d just like to know how Kenly gets all the good players every year. They pretend they don’t go after them, but it’s mighty funny! There’s a heap more than luck in it! Here we are needing a good full-back like Harmon the worst way, and he has to select Kenly. It makes you sick!”

      “Reckon he’s as good as the papers made him out?”

      “Of course he is! Great Scott, you can’t get away from his record, Bob! Why,