“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.”