shipped strength and brawn as only the thin weakling can. Football, baseball, and basket ball players had been his heroes and his earthly gods.
The first year at Northfield he had turned out for all three sports. Baseball and basketball had given him the routine of a trial; football had not even considered him. The second year he had merely played the part of a loyal rooter. He had studied football rules in the hope that it might be his good fortune to invent a play that would save the bitter end of some disastrous season. He had learned to box-score a ball game in the hope that the gods might smile on him and lead him to the throne of Official Scorer. In his infatuation with all that stood for speed and stamina, skill and endurance, he had called himself blessed if he could be linesman or foul chaser, guardian of an honored sweater or custodian of the water bucket.
And now the place of manager of the eleven was open! Last fall, when Crandall had been selected, Perry was a sophomore and had not given the place a thought. By custom the manager's berth always went to a junior or senior. But now he was eligible—he who had followed the team through two seasons without missing a game; he who had carted sweaters, minded
