The Half-Back: A Story of School, Football, and Golf. Barbour Ralph Henry

we don't know much about it down our way. I've played baseball and football some. Do you play football?"

      "No, I should say not," answered West scornfully. "You see," more graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when I haven't got some lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. A chap doesn't get time for anything else." The other boy looked puzzled.

      "Well, don't you want to study?"

      West stared in amazement. "Study! Want to? Of course I don't! Do you?"

      "Very much. That's what I came to school for."

      "Oh!" West studied the strange youth dubiously. Plainly, he was not at all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "Then why were you trying for the football team awhile ago?"

      "Because next to studying I want to play football more than anything else. Don't you think I'll have time for it?"

      "You bet! And say, you ought to learn golf. It's the finest sport going." West's hopes revived. A fellow that wanted sport, if only football, could not be a bad sort. Besides, he would get over wanting to study; that, to West, was a most unnatural desire. "There isn't half a dozen really first-class players in school. You get some clubs and I'll teach you the game."

      "That's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and I'm very much obliged, but I don't think I'll have time. You see I'm in the upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with. Still, I should really like to try my hand at it, and if I have time I'll ask you to show me a little about it. I expect you're the best player here, aren't you?" West, extremely gratified, tried to conceal his pleasure.

      "Oh, I don't know. There's Wesley Blair–he's captain of the school eleven, you know–he plays a very good game, only he has a way of missing short puts. And then there's Louis Whipple. The only thing about Whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. He says a fellow can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can with a dozen clubs. Of course, that's nonsense. If Whipple would use some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. There are one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. But I believe," magnanimously, "that if Blair had more time for practicing he could beat me." West allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. The straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing thoughtfully over the river.

      "I suppose he's kept pretty busy with football."

      "Yes, he's daft about it. Otherwise he's a fine chap. By the way, where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?"

      "On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I–Jerry's our hired man–we used to get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our grammar-school eleven."

      "Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like that! Say, what's your name?"

      "Joel March."

      "Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"

      "Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a few houses. We've lived there–our family, I mean–for over a hundred years."

      "Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I was a bit lame after that tumble."

      The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.

      "Where's your room?" asked West.

      "Thirty-four Masters Hall," answered Joel March; for now that we have twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer ignore his name.

      "Mine's in Hampton House," said West. "Number 2. I have it all to myself. Who's in with you?"

      "A fellow named Sproule."

      "'Dickey' Sproule? He's an awful cad. Why didn't you get a room in the village? You have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room too; although some of the rooms in Warren are not half bad."

      "They cost too much," replied March. "You see, father's not very well off, and can't help me much. He pays my tuition, and I've enough money of my own that I've earned working out to make up the rest. So, of course, I've got to be careful."

      "Well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed West.

      "Why?" asked Joel March.

      "Oh, I don't know. Wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and that sort of thing."

      "Oh, I suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?"

      "Gobs! I have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money."

      "I wish I had," answered March. "You must have a good deal saved up by the end of the year." West stared.

      "Saved? Why, I'm dead broke this minute. And I owe three bills in town. Don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you know. Anyhow, what's the good of saving? There's lots more." It was March's turn to stare.

      "What do you spend it for?" he asked.

      "Oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered West carelessly. "Then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows look down on you."

      "Do they?" March cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "Then I guess I must try their eyes a good deal."

      "Well, I wouldn't care–much," answered West halfheartedly. "Though of course that hat–"

      "Yes, I suppose it is a little late for straws." West nodded heartily. "I was going to get a felt in Boston, but–well, I saw something else I wanted worse; and it was my own money."

      "What was it?" asked West curiously.

      "A book." West whistled.

      "Well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at Grove's. And–and a pair of trousers if you want them."

      March nodded, noncommittingly. They had reached the gymnasium.

      "I'm going in for a shower," said West. "You'd better come along." March shook his head.

      "I guess not to-night. It's most supper time, and I want to read a little first. Good-night."

      "Good-night," answered West. "I'm awfully much obliged for what you did, you know. Come and see me to-morrow if you can; Number 2 Hampton. Good-night."

      Joel March turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. He found his roommate reading at the table when he entered Number 34. Sproule looked up and observed:

      "I saw you with Outfield West a moment ago. It looks rather funny for a 'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a Hampton House swell."

      "I haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered Joel quietly, as he opened his Greek.

      "Well, your actions profess it. And West will drop you quicker than a hot cake when he finds it out. Why, he never studies a lick! None of those Hampton House fellows do."

      March made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable:

      "What are you reading?"

      "The Three Cutters; ever read it?"

      "No; what's it about?"

      "Oh, pirates and smuggling and such."

      "I should think it would be first rate."

      "It is. I'd let you take it after I'm through, only it isn't mine; I borrowed it from Billy Cozzens."

      "Thanks," answered Joel, "but I don't believe I'd have time for it."

      "Humph!" grunted Sproule. "There you are again, putting on airs. Just wait until you've been here two or three months; I guess I won't hear so much about study then."

      Joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands, tackled the story of Cyrus the Younger. Joel had already