“No, it’s branded in. He isn’t showing much of the good-nature they talk about, is he?”
In fact, Dunn’s good-nature didn’t extend far below the skin. It was a mannerism assumed to win him the popularity which he craved. He was vain, lazy, and characterless. In the football field his fine physique, together with the professional air with which he bore himself, for some time blinded the eyes of critics to his shortcomings. Yards, the coach, felt sure that something could be made of a man of Dunn’s vigor and apparent knowledge of the game. Yet a strong player opposite him, or the grinding strain of an uphill contest, invariably produced slackened effort and excuses.
“It’s come to be the weakest place in the team,” said the coach, a few days before the Groton game. “If we could brace up the left end and quarter-back, we should have some hope of giving Newbury a tussle.”
“Is Sumner so bad as all that?” asked Harrison, disturbed. “I thought he was running the play very well.”
“He runs the play well enough, but look at the errors! He fumbles, muffs punts, misses tackles. A quarter-back has no right to do anything of the kind.”
“No one plays perfectly,” Harrison hastened to offer in defence of his friend. “Besides, he’s the only man we’ve got for the place.”
“Hardie is coming on well,” observed the coach. “He’s going to push Ben Tracy pretty hard for tackle. We might give him a trial at quarter.”
“I don’t think he’d do at all,” answered Harrison, quickly. “He’d be entirely new to the position, and we shall need him as a substitute tackle before the season is over.”
The coach considered for a time in silence. Yards was a loyal Westcott graduate, whose devotion to his school was strong enough to make him sacrifice his afternoons at the Law School for the sake of helping the Westcott team. He knew the game well and could teach it, but he lacked confidence in his own judgment of the comparative merits of individuals, and he was morbidly anxious to avoid the foolish jealousies which he remembered as a source of weakness to the school in his own day. It was clear that Harrison’s heart was set on keeping Sumner in his place. To insist on a change which would be at best an experiment with an unknown quantity, and which might give rise to factions, seemed at present unwise.
“We’ll give McDowell a chance on the end, anyway,” he said, “and let Dunn rest.”