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"I am not your friend, the Professor," I admitted. "And the voice!" he muttered, staring down at me. "It's his voice. I ain't put in my winters with him this last dozen years and more to be mistook in his voice. Say, boy, who be you?" "Clint Webb is my name," I replied. "Where do you hail from?" "Massachusetts. Late of the Scarboro whaling bark." "How old be you?" "Going on seventeen."
Clint thought he had never seen so much toast in his life as appeared on and disappeared from the second team's table that Fall. Another thing that "Boots" would not tolerate was water with meals. It was, he declared, ruinous to the digestion.
When the squad took the field Clint saw that Cupples had taken his place at right tackle and that Robbins was at left. This, he reflected with some satisfaction, was doubtless because Robbins was not quite so good as he, Clint, and the left of the 'varsity line was the strongest.
The strains that issued from the instrument were awful, but there was something fine in the player's absorption and obvious content, and what had started out as a laugh of amusement changed to a sympathetic smile as Clint tiptoed on to his own door. The sorrow of Penny's young life was that, although he had made innumerable attempts, he could not succeed in the formation of a school orchestra.
"Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint. "The quarter-back just bawls out whatever comes into his head and then he tosses the ball to whichever chap looks as if he was wide enough awake to catch it and that chap makes a break at the line wherever he happens to think he can get through," continued Amy convincedly. "All this stuff about signals is rot. Now we'll see.
I haven't got him warmed up yet, that's all. We've only started, haven't we, Dreer?" "You you brute!" muttered Dreer. "What do you want me to do? I I'll do anything you say, Byrd." "Will you? Then come away from that fence so I can knock you over again, you sneak!" "He's had enough, Amy," pleaded Clint. "Enough? Oh, no, he hasn't!
Now I suppose I'll have to go without a new fur coat this winter." Hannah smiled agreeably. "Well, Julia, it's better for you to do without a new fur coat this winter than for me to do without any." The Clint Darrow of her girlhood dreams, grown rather paunchy and mottled now, and with the curling black hair but a sparse grizzled fringe, had belied Horace Winter's contemptuous opinion.
I guess he was afraid if the fellows learned of it they'd cheer!" Amy chuckled. "Bet they would, too! Where's my dear old German dictionary?" The two boys settled down at opposite sides of the table to study. After a few minutes, Clint whose thoughts still dwelt on Penny's tragedy, asked: "What made you think it was Dreer, Amy?" "Eh? Oh, why, who else would it be?
"I'll say no more," he declared. "You're past help, Clint. You've tasted blood. Go on, you poor mistaken hero, and maim yourself for life. I wash my hands of you." "You'd better wash them of some of that dirt I see and come to supper," Clint mumbled. "Gee, if I'd talked half as much as you have in the last ten minutes I'd be starved!"
His twelve-year-old vocabulary boasted such compound difficulties as mizzentopsail-yard and main-topgallantmast. He knew the intricate parts of a full-rigged ship from the mainsail to the deck, from the jib-boom to the chart-house. All this from pictures and books. It was the roving, restless spirit of his father in him, I suppose. Clint Kamps had never been meant for marriage.
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