“Oh, I don’t mean that he’d do it intentionally,” replied Westby. “But
he’s so overanxious and eager always—and he’s apt to get away without
realizing—without the starter realizing.—I wonder who’s going to be
starter, by the way?”

Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten them.

Westby bethought him to ask the same question of Scarborough half an
hour later, when they were dressing in the athletic house.

“Mr. Upton has consented to serve,” said Scarborough gravely.

Westby thumped himself down on a bench, dangling one spiked running shoe
by the string.

“What! Kiddy!”

“The same,” said Scarborough.

Westby said nothing more; he stooped and put on his shoe, and then he
rose and came over to Scarborough, who was untangling a knot. He passed
his hand over Scarborough’s head and remarked wonderingly, “Feels
perfectly normal—strange—strange!”

Morrill came in from outside, clapping his hands. “Corinthians out for
the mile—Heath—Price—Bolton—Edwards—all ready?”

The four named answered by clumping on their spikes to the door.