“Tempest?” he questioned. “He’s the captain, isn’t he?”
Keran nodded.
There was a momentary pause, during which Carr applied the match to his cigar and took a puff or two to make sure that it was well lighted. Then he leaned back comfortably on his chair.
“It’s always a mistake for the captain to butt in too much with the quarter back,” he remarked casually. “Of course, if the quarter isn’t onto his job he should be coached; but if he can’t stand on his own legs at this stage of the game he ought to be dropped and some one found who could. Constant nagging of the quarter back has been the cause of a good many defeats. Why, I remember just such a case in my last year at Brown. I was one of the subs in the game with Cornell. The captain had a grudge against the quarter, and his continual interference got the fellow so on his ear that we lost the game. Ballard—that was the captain—certainly got his when it was all over with. Coaches, alumni, and about all the team landed on his neck and roasted him good and plenty. He never repeated the trick.”
Kenny felt a sort of warming toward his new acquaintance. He seemed to be a man of a good deal of understanding, and the instance he had cited fitted Kenny’s own case exactly.
“Of course, a fellow doesn’t mind suggestions, or even orders, when they’re given at the proper time and place,” he put in hastily. “I hope I haven’t got such a case of swelled head as to think that nobody can give me points; but what’s the use of being quarter if you can’t do a little thinking now and then on your own hook?”
Carr nodded understandingly.
“Exactly my point of view,” he returned quickly, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he spoke. “I fancy the trouble with this Tempest is that he wants to have his finger in everything.”
There was a momentary pause. Neither Kenny nor Keran seemed inclined to pursue the subject farther. Presently Carr looked up at the latter.
“Of course you boys are going to wipe up the gridiron with Harvard on Saturday?” he smiled.