“What ails you?” cried Dashleigh. “Don’t get a foolish notion into your head that the sophs will beat us.”
“It is written in the stars,” solemnly declared Ready. “As far as that race is concerned, you’ll not be in it this year.”
“We’ll have a walkover,” put in Starbright, who had been keeping still and listening to the others, but who was aroused now. “Merry says we have the finest freshman crew since his day in the freshman boat.”
“Taffy,” said Jack. “But it’s a poor coach that makes such talk to his men.”
“He made it before he knew he was to coach us.”
“Well, then it is certain that he will now find you in a very sloppy condition. There is nothing surer to spoil a freshman crew than praise. Freshmen fall easy subjects to that terrible disease known as the swellidus headedus, and it makes monkeys of them.”
“You don’t need to have it,” said Starbright. “Nature got ahead of the disease.”
“Young man,” said Jack, severely glaring at Dick’s muscular figure, “if you were not so small I’d thrash you for that insult! As it is, fearing lest I do you permanent injury, I withhold my hand. But we’ll literally bury you out at Lake Whitney, for all of your new coach.”
Starbright laughed heartily.
“That’s the greatest joke you’ve cracked this evening, Ready,” he cried, in his hearty way.