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“Listen,” said Larry; “those fellows in the athletic bunch are out after ‘material,’ but that is just as far as it goes, Dick. They’d take me on as a sort of promising chunk of bone and muscle—and that’s all. I’m not in their class.”

Dick flapped his hands in despair.

“You’re the limit, Larry! That ‘class’ notion of yours, in free-for-all America, is simply bunk!”

“Is it?” Larry queried sharply. “I can prove what I say. Look at little Purdick—waiting on table in Hassler’s restaurant to earn his way: does anybody ask him to get in on any of the try-outs? Not so you could notice it. Look at Jungman, tending furnaces and wheelbarrowing ashes: Saturday, when some of the fellows were going for a hike, one of ’em said: ‘Let’s make Jungman take time off and go with us.’ Were there any frantic shouts of approval? Not on your life. Instead, Banker Waldrich said, ‘Oh, nit! he isn’t our sort.’”

Again Dick made the gesture of despair.

“I guess you’re hopeless!” he gave up; and with that he went to get his own book.