“Dave wouldn’t steal it,” exclaimed Blake indignantly. “You Corinthians would accuse a man of anything!”
“Oh, I don’t mean that he’d do it intentionally,” replied Westby. “But he’s so overanxious and eager always—and he’s apt to get away without realizing—without the starter realizing.—I wonder who’s going to be starter, by the way?”
Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten them.
Westby bethought him to ask the same question of Scarborough half an hour later, when they were dressing in the athletic house.
“Mr. Upton has consented to serve,” said Scarborough gravely.
Westby thumped himself down on a bench, dangling one spiked running shoe by the string.
“What! Kiddy!”
“The same,” said Scarborough.
Westby said nothing more; he stooped and put on his shoe, and then he rose and came over to Scarborough, who was untangling a knot. He passed his hand over Scarborough’s head and remarked wonderingly, “Feels perfectly normal—strange—strange!”
Morrill came in from outside, clapping his hands. “Corinthians out for the mile—Heath—Price—Bolton—Edwards—all ready?”