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“Must be nearsighted,” murmured Toby.

“And said something nice about Fan. Oh, it was much the usual speech, only—well, it did sound different, somehow. One thing he did say, though, T. Tucker, may interest you.”

“You may proceed, Mr. Deering.”

“He said he wanted every fellow in school who had the possible making of a football player in him to report not later than Monday, and that if they didn’t volunteer he’d draft them! That ought to give you something to think about, old thing.”

“Meaning that I have somewhere concealed about me the making of a football player?” asked Toby.

“Exactly. You’d better keep out of Lyle’s way or he will grab you.”

After a moment Toby, who had armed himself with towel and soap-dish preparatory to a trip to the lavatory, moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “He can’t draft me, Arn,” he said.

“Why can’t he, I’d like to know?”

“Because I’m going out for the Second to-morrow.”

“What! Honest? When—How——”

But Toby had closed the door behind him.