“Well, he gets the balls,—that’s the main thing,” said Marks. “You’ll find few errors against his name.”
“Do you know why?” returned Curtis. “He never tries for a ball unless he’s sure he can get it. It’s easy enough to get a fielding record when you never take any hard chances.”
“But he does,” insisted Marks. “Don’t you remember the long running catch he made in the Musgrove School game?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Curtis; “and he held the ball, admiring himself, for four seconds afterward and let the man on third walk home.”
“You’re down on him,” said Marks, not knowing what else to reply.
Curtis sniffed. “Down on him! Well, perhaps I am. Perhaps it would be better if he were down on himself. When I see him try hard for balls that he can’t get, or make some good long throws right when they’re needed, or slide hard to bases, or make a good sacrifice hit, then I’ll change my opinion.”
“Tompkins has improved, hasn’t he?” said Marks, suddenly changing to a fresh subject. John Curtis was not an agreeable person to argue with, for he held his opinions tenaciously and had unpleasant things to say to those who held opposing views; and Marks, who argued on athletics in a very fluent and confident style when he had laymen like himself to deal with, felt a little shy before a real athlete, even though the sport under discussion was not that in which the athlete excelled.
“That’s right,” replied Curtis, “no great genius with curves, I judge, but he has good control and uses his head. The difficulty with him is that he’s a fool, too.”
Marks looked curiously into the football player’s face.
“Apparently every one’s a fool to-day,—every one, I suppose, but John Curtis.”