squad. "Toss me the ball a minute, Ned. Here's a chap who wants to try
a kick."

Ned Post threw the ball, and his squad of veterans turned to observe the
odd-looking country boy toe the pigskin. Several audible remarks were
made, none of them at all flattering to the subject of them; but if the
latter heard them he made no sign, but accepted the ball from Blair
without fumbling it, much to the surprise of the onlookers. Among these
were Clausen and Cloud, their mouths prepared for the burst of ironical
laughter that was expected to follow the country boy's effort.

"Drop or punt?" asked the latter, as he settled the oval in a rather
ample hand.

"Which can you kick best?" questioned Blair. The youth considered a
moment.

"I guess I can punt best." He stepped back, balancing the ball in his
right hand, took a long stride forward, swung his right leg in a wide
arc, dropped the ball, and sent it sailing down the field toward the
distant goal. A murmur of applause took the place of the derisive laugh,
and Blair glanced curiously at the former right end-rush of the Felton
Grammar School.

"Yes, that's pretty fair. Some day with hard practice you may make a
kicker." Several of the older fellows smiled knowingly. It was Blair's
way of nipping conceit in the bud. "What class are you in?"

"Upper middle," replied the youth under the straw hat, displaying no
disappointment at the scant praise.