"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