“Meaning I’m to quit throwing off on him, eh? Oh, all right. He’s not bad, even if he is trying to see how rotten he can play.” “Rot,” replied Bert warmly. “Chick’s doing as well as any fellow on the team, Tommy, and you know it.” “You’re a liar,” responded Tommy sweetly, “and _you_ know it! Ever since he got thrown down at the election last winter he’s been as sore as a boil, and ever since he started to play football last month he’s been just passing the time. I’m not the only one who knows it, either, if you don’t--or pretend you don’t. Johnny’s got his number, believe me! Some fine day Chick’s going to wake up and find himself on the outside looking in!” “Nonsense,” muttered Bert. But he was uneasily conscious that there might be some truth in Tommy’s prediction. Chick had been rather poor this fall, and it was scarcely possible that Coach Cade hadn’t noted the fact. Bert tossed a half-emptied box of drug-store candy into Tommy’s lap and, because the other had jarred him, said irritably: “Go ahead and kill yourself, you silly pig!” Tommy removed the lid and peered dubiously into the box. “Not much chance of killing myself with what’s here,” he stated derisively. “Have some?” “No, thanks.” Bert sat down at the study table and thoughtfully rolled a pencil between his palms. “Rather a thankless job, yours, Tommy. I mean fellows don’t take kindly to your criticism, eh?” Tommy shrugged, crossed his knees and regarded a chocolate disapprovingly. Beyond a doubt it had been confined too long in that box! “If you mean I’m not popular, you’re right. But popularity never got any one anything much. Look at History. Men who really did things, men who won success, were unpopular. Look at--at Cæsar, and Napoleon and Lincoln and--” “Your examples are not so good, Tommy,” Bert laughed. “The gentlemen you refer to were rather unfortunate in the end, weren’t they?” “What of it? They did big things while they were alive. If you’re one of these popular, well-liked guys about all you get is a slap on the back. When there’s a real plum to be handed out the popular guy takes tickets at the door. Every one likes him fine, but when there’s a big job to be done no one even sees him. The job goes to some rough-neck who has so many enemies he has to carry a gun! No, sir, being liked is a handicap, Bert. If you want to be something and get somewhere talk rude, step on folks’ toes and get yourself hated. It’s the surest way.” “Tommy, you certainly get hold of some funny notions,” said Bert, half admiringly. “It must take a lot of your time to think them up.” Tommy waved a hand carelessly. “I like to think,” he said. “Most fellows don’t. When you call my ideas funny, though, you just mean that they don’t happen to be yours. That’s typical of your class, Bert. Anything strange--I mean unfamiliar--you call funny.” “My class? Meaning the Junior?”