Читать книгу The Brother of a Hero онлайн

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The entering class that year numbered twenty-seven. Rodney had a chance to look them over Thursday evening when the new First Form held a meeting in the Assembly Hall and organized. A fellow named Sanderson was elected president, and a youth named White was chosen for secretary and treasurer. Rodney took small part in the proceedings, but met, after the business meeting was over, quite a number of his classmates. They seemed a decent lot, he thought. They ranged in age from twelve to fifteen and hailed from seven States, most of them living within a half day’s journey. Rodney was the only Nebraska representative and came from farther away than any of them, except one boy whose home was in Colorado.

So far he had not again encountered Guy Watson, and was rather glad of it. Not that he was physically afraid of Watson, but he anticipated trouble sooner or later, and, being a sensible chap, preferred to avoid it as long as possible. One thing that amused Rodney was the fact that no one had as yet connected him with his brother, who had graduated from Maple Hill four years previous. Sooner or later fellows would discover that the famous Ginger Merrill and the unknown Rodney were brothers. Until they did Rodney was satisfied to remain in obscurity, having no desire to shine in reflected glory. He hadn’t been there twenty-four hours before he heard Stanley’s name mentioned—they didn’t call him Stanley, however; he was Ginger to fame. At Maple Hill they compared every promising football player with Ginger Merrill, and each year’s team to the team that Ginger had captained four years before. Of course, Rodney knew that that remarkable brother of his had been something unusual on the football field, but he didn’t realize Stanley’s real greatness until he reached Maple Hill and heard fellows hold forth. They spoke of Ginger almost with bated breath, at least with a pride and reverence that warmed Rodney’s heart and made him wonder if fellows would ever speak like that of him after he had been gone four years. If they ever did, he reflected, it would not be because of his prowess on the gridiron, for football had no place in Rodney’s scheme. He liked to watch the game and could get as excited and partisan as anyone over it, but as for playing—well, one football hero was enough in a family, and Rodney had confined his athletic interests to baseball and tennis. Of those he was fond, especially tennis. He rather prided himself on his tennis. He had tried football, had even played a whole season on a team composed of grammar school youngsters in Orleans, but he had never become an enthusiast, nor ever made a name for himself. If someone, ball in arm, ran the length of the field and fell triumphant over the goal line, it was never Rodney. Rodney played in the line, took his medicine unflinchingly, did his best to give as good as he got, and was always somewhat relieved when the final whistle sounded. No, it wouldn’t be for his football prowess that posterity would remember him.