“I might have.”

“When?”

“’S afternoon.  We met by chance.  Casually I mentioned the fact that you were probably one of the niftiest little linemen that ever broke through the—­er—­stubborn defence of a desperate enemy—­”

“You idiot!”

“And that, if properly encouraged, you would very likely be willing to lend your helpful assistance to the Dear Old Team.  And he said:  ’Bless you, Amy, for them glad tidings.  All is not lost, With Clint Thayer to help us, victory may once more perch upon our pennant!’ Or maybe it was ‘banner.’”

“Honest, Amy,” pleaded Clint, “what did you say?”

“Only that you were rooming with me and that I’d heard you say you, played and that I meant to bring you around to see him this evening.”

“And he said?”

“He said ‘Of course, bring him along.’”

“Oh,” murmured Clint

“Just the remark I was about to make,” declared Amy.

CHAPTER III

AMY AIRS HIS VIEWS

Clint settled down into his appointed niche at Brimfield, one of one hundred and seventy-two individuals of various ages between twelve and twenty.  At Brimfield there were six forms, and Clint had, after a brief examination, been assigned to the fourth.  He found that he was well up with the class in everything save Greek and Latin, and these, Greek especially, soon proved hard sledding.  The instructor, Mr. Simkins—­or “Uncle Sim,” as he was called—­was no easy taskmaster.  He entertained a profound reverence for Aristotle and Vergil and Cicero and Homer and all the others, and failed to understand why his classes thought them tiresome and, sometimes, dry.  His very enthusiasm, however, made him easy to impose on, and many a fellow received good marks merely because he simulated a fervid interest.  But Clint was either too honest or possessed too little histrionic talent to attempt that plan, and by the time the Fall term was a week old, he, together with many another, was just barely keeping his head above water.  He confessed discouragement to his room-mate one evening.  Amy was sympathetic but scarcely helpful.

“It’s tommyrot, that’s what it is,” Amy said with conviction.  “What good does it do you to know Greek, anyway?  I’ll bet you anything that Uncle Sim himself couldn’t go to Athens tomorrow and order a cup of coffee and a hard-boiled egg!  Or, if he did order them, he’d get a morning newspaper and toothpick.  Last Spring I was in the boot-blacking emporium in the village one afternoon and Horace came in to get his shoes shined.  There—­”

“Who is Horace!” asked Clint dejectedly.

“Mr. Daley; modern languages; you have him in French.  Well, there was a notice stuck on the wall across the place.  It was in Greek and I couldn’t make anything out of it at all and I asked Horace what it said.  Of course he just read it right off, with a mere passing glance; did he not?  Yes, he did not!  He hemmed and hawed and muttered and finally said he couldn’t make out the second word.  I told him that was my trouble, too.  Then we asked the Greek that runs the place and he told us it said that shines on Sundays and holidays were ten cents.  Of course, Horace isn’t a specialist in Greek, but still he’s been through college, and what I say is—­”