I'm
very much obliged, but I don't think I'll have time. You see I'm in the
upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with.
Still, I should really like to try my hand at it, and if I have time
I'll ask you to show me a little about it. I expect you're the best
player here, aren't you?" West, extremely gratified, tried to conceal
his pleasure.

"Oh, I don't know. There's Wesley Blair--he's captain of the school
eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of
missing short puts. And then there's Louis Whipple. The only thing about
Whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. He says a fellow
can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can
with a dozen clubs. Of course, that's nonsense. If Whipple would use
some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. There are
one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. But I believe,"
magnanimously, "that if Blair had more time for practicing he could beat
_me_." West allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. The
straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing
thoughtfully over the river.

"I suppose he's kept pretty busy with football."

"Yes, he's daft about it. Otherwise he's a fine chap. By the way,
where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?"

"On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which
wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I--Jerry's our hired man--we used to
get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our
grammar-school eleven."

"Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like
that! Say, what's your name?"

"Joel March."

"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in
Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"

"Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a
few houses. We've lived there--our family, I mean--for over a
hundred years."

"Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's
been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back
to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I _was_ a bit lame after
that tumble."

The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The
sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping
up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed
crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.

"Wher