Football -- Juvenile fiction; Schools -- Juvenile fiction
“Mean you don’t agree with me? Mean you don’t know you’re a cracking
good player? Pouf, you’re stringing me! Why, I sized you up a long time
ago, Bert. ‘There,’ I said to myself, ‘is a lad that’s going to show
’em some football before very long!’ Yes, sir, I generally manage to
pick the winners. I don’t play the game myself; I tried it once but I
wasn’t built just according to specifications; but that doesn’t keep
me from seeing what’s going on and what’s coming off. I sized you up
for a clever running back the first time I saw you in action. That
was last fall when you were on the Scrub Team, Bert. Why, I haven’t
missed a practice session since I came here, hardly! Fellows say I’m
fresh and shoot off my mouth.” Tommy shrugged, looked regretfully at
the rumpled sack he still held and tossed it in the general direction
of the rubbish barrel at the corner of Upton. “Maybe I do, but some
one’s got to tell the truth! Take Johnny Cade now. He’s too easy. Say,
know something? Well, if I was coach of this team, or any other team,
for that matter, I’d see that fellows jumped when I spoke to ’em. Yes,
sir, when I said ‘Hep!’ they’d hep! Johnny’s too--too soft. Oh, I know
he can be rough if he wants to, but that isn’t the trick. Fellows are
naturally lazy, Bert. You’ve got to prod ’em all the time if you’re
going to get ’em to pull. Johnny doesn’t prod. He just says ‘Gee’ or
‘Haw’ and the whole crowd move about as fast as a yoke of oxes--oxen, I
mean. That’s where I come in and do my little stunt, see? When I catch
a fellow soldiering I get after him, you bet. They don’t like it, of
course. Let ’em not!” Tommy smiled comfortably. “It’s for their own
good. They offer to punch my nose and knock my block off and all that,
but I notice they don’t do it. They know mighty well that when I say
they’re rotten they are rotten!”
Bert paused on the steps of Upton and stared at Tommy with a new
interest. Tommy, feeling unsuccessfully about his pockets for further
provender, gazed complacently across the twilit campus. Yielding to an
impulse, Bert asked: “Doing anything, Tommy?”
“No, I guess not. I did think of going to the movie, but it’s one of
those vamp pictures, and they make me sick.”
“Come on up to the room then and tell me more about it,” invited the
other.
“About what? Got anything good up there?”
“Great Scott, you’re not still hungry!”
Tommy grinned. “Pouf, I’m never really hungry, I guess, but I can
generally eat.”
“You mean you do generally eat,” laughed Bert. “Maybe I can dig up
something to keep life in your poor thin body. Come on.”
“I haven’t been in here for a long time,” said Tommy as he selected the
easiest chair and relaxed with a sigh. “You and Chick still hit it off?
He’d get on my nerves mighty quick, I guess. He’s what I call a hard
frost.”
“Chick’s a fine chap when you know him,” said Bert. “He and I have been
friends a long time.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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