“How’s that?”

“I meant to study law; I’d like to be a lawyer.  But what’s the use?  If I can’t learn to handle boys, how can I ever hope to handle men?—­and that’s what a lawyer has to do, I suppose.”

“Look here,” said Barclay.  “You’re still young; if you’ve learned what’s the matter with you—­and you seem to have—­you’ve learned more than most fellows of your age.  It’s less than a month that you’ve been here, and you’ve never had any experience before in dealing with boys.  Why should you expect to know it all at once?”

“I suppose there’s something in that.  But I feel that I haven’t it in me ever to get on with them.”

“You’re doing better now than you did at first; they don’t look on you entirely as a joke now, do they?”

“Perhaps not.—­Oh,” Irving broke out, “I know what the trouble is—­I want to be liked—­and I suppose I’m not the likeable kind.”

Barclay did not at once dispute this statement, and Irving was beginning to feel hurt.

“The point is,” said Barclay at last, “that to be liked by boys you’ve got to like them.  If you hold off from them and distrust them and try to wrap yourself up in a cloak of dignity or mystery, they won’t like you because they won’t know you.  If you show an interest in them and their interests, you can be as stern with them as justice demands, and they won’t lay it up against you.  But if you don’t show an interest—­why, you can’t expect them to have an interest in you.”

They turned a bend in the road; the athletic field lay spread out before them.  In different parts of it half a dozen football elevens were engaged in practice; on the tennis courts near the athletic house boys in white trousers and sweaters were playing; on the track encircling the football field other boys more lightly clad were sprinting or jogging round in practice for long-distance runs; a few sauntered about as spectators, with hands in their overcoat pockets.

“There,” said Barclay, indicating a group of these idle observers, “you can at least do that.”

“But what’s the use?”

“Make yourself a critic; pick out eight or ten fellows to watch especially.  In football or tennis or running.  It doesn’t much matter.  If they find you’re taking an intelligent interest in what they’re doing, they’ll be pleased.  Westby, for instance, is running; he’s entered for the hundred yards in the fall games,—­likely to win it, too.  Westby’s your greatest trial, isn’t he?  Then why don’t you make a point of watching him?—­Not too obviously, of course.  Come round with me; I’m coaching some of the runners for the next half-hour, and then Collingwood wants me to give his ends a little instruction.”

“Dear me!  If I’d only been an athlete instead of a student in college!” sighed Irving whimsically.

“You don’t need to be much of an athlete to coach; I never was so very much,” confided Barclay.  “But there are things you can learn by looking on.”  They had reached the edge of the track; Barclay clapped his hands.  “No, no, Roberts!” The boy who was practising the start for a sprint looked up.  “You mustn’t reel all over the track that way when you start; you’d make a foul.  Keep your elbows in, and run straight.”