"Oh, pretty well, I think. I'm not wholly satisfied with myself, but I believe I'm improving every day," replied the other, modestly.
Frank looked sideways at his friend, and smiled. He had just been talking with the coach, and heard what he had to say about the scrub team. It was already understood between them that two of the regulars must give way to better men who shone as stars on the scrub. Columbia wanted her best sons in front, regardless of any favoritism.
Coach Willoughby was back again, visiting at the home of Buster Billings' folks. He said the "lure of the leather" was too much for him, bringing back those dear old college days when he played on the Princeton eleven, and carried the ball over Yale's line for a hard-fought victory.
And so he had consented to take charge of the Columbia players, and help them get in condition for the work ahead, when they were to meet the brawny cohorts of Clifford, and those others from Bellport.
Frank and Ralph had not gone more than fifty yards down the dusty road leading from the recreation field to the town center, perhaps a full mile away, when Ralph felt a sharp tug at his arm.
"Hello! what's this?" he said, looking down at a small girl, who seemed so shy that her face was covered with blushes as she pulled at his sleeve.
