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Larry grunted and looked up suspiciously.

“Where’d you get all that flowery stuff?” he demanded.

“I read it in a book,” Dick confessed brazenly. “Just the same, it’s so.”

The next afternoon Larry reported to Brock, the head coach, at the gymnasium, offering himself for the try-outs.

“What have you done?” snapped the square-faced, broad-shouldered man-picker who was filling the Sheddon teams.

“Little High School baseball and foot-ball.”

“What place in foot-ball?”

“End one year; right half the next two.”

The shrewd gray eyes of the coach swept him up and down.

“H’m; you were the bridge-scrap leader, weren’t you? Come in here and strip and let’s have a look at you.”

Larry took his “physical” without a flaw; heart action perfectly normal, weight within a pound and three ounces of what his age and height called for, chest expansion well above normal. In addition, his summer’s work on the railroad-building job in the Colorado mountains had made him as hard as nails.

“You’ll do,” said the coach, and sent him to the field.