else to work his way through, it's next to impossible to play football too."
"I'd want to play football," Harold mused, fascinated by these expert comments from his Olympian seatmate.
"Well, it's too bad you aren't to have the chance," Rhoades agreed politely, though the private glance he gave Harold seemed to indicate that he did not consider Harold's chances of making the Tate team too sure-fire.
They parted at the Cleveland station, Rhoades was to catch an express train on another railroad.
"Maybe I'll see you at Tate, after all, some time," was the assistant coach's last cheerful prophecy.
"There's not a chance, I'm afraid," said Harold, and tried to smile.
Then the visitor from Sanford consulted the memorandum book in which he had written his Uncle Peter's address. He strove to recall the explicit and many times repeated directions he had received from his father as to how the Thatcher Steel Works were to be reached. Having, with difficulty, turned his mind from thoughts of Tate shoe-shining stands and football to drop forgings, he discovered what trolley car he was to take and walked out of the station to the street.
A half hour of jolty riding in the street car
