the sort of football played here is quite different from the English game."
"You've never seen our style of football, have you? Why, yes, I think you'll notice a difference. I dare say they'll be putting on a scrimmage in a day or two, and you'll have a chance to compare the two games."
"I'm sure it will be most interesting, sir."
An escaped football trickled across the running track and came to a stop a few feet from the chair. Wattles, an adventurous gleam in his eyes, started to rise, but a boy in togs was in pursuit, and, crunching across the cinders, scooped up the ball. Wattles relapsed, disappointedly, to his former composure. With the ball in one hand, the player glanced smilingly at the boy in the wheel chair.
"Hello!" he said. "Pretty warm, isn't it?"
"Very," answered Loring. There wasn't time for more, for the rather tall youth with the nice eyes, and the pleasant, friendly smile, turned quickly, dropped the ball, met it with the instep of his right foot and jogged back toward the middle of the playing field. Loring watched the scuffed, brown leather ball arch away on a forty-yard flight, and settle into the arms of a waiting player.
"That's a fellow who spoke to me one night in the corridor, Wattles. Gave me a hand getting into that meeting room. Rather a nice, clean looking chap, isn't he?"
"Very, sir. Quite the gentleman."
