“Oh, that’s always the way,” declared Irving Nash. “It’s the same old cry that’s heard every year.”
“Not a bit of it,” put in Gene Skelding, who had blossomed out with a handsome new pink shirt, of which he was very proud. “Yale seldom has much to say, though the newspapers may be full of rot about the nine, or the crew, or something or other. This year it is different. We’ve tried to keep the truth from getting into the papers, but it’s out just the same.”
“What maketh me thick,” lisped Lew Veazie, “ith thith thilly talk about all the twoble coming fwom the abthence of that fellow Fwank Merriwell. It ith vewy tirethome!”
“That’s so, chummie,” agreed Ollie Lord, standing as high as possible on the high heels of his polished shoes. “As if he could make any difference if he were here!”
“He’s usually made a difference in the past,” said Nash instantly. “He has a way of stirring things up.”
“That’s right,” agreed Lib Benson. “I wonder where he can be and what is keeping him away. He’ll fail in his exams sure as fate if he stays away much longer. Even now I’m afraid he’ll have to grind so hard that he won’t have much time for baseball, or anything else.”
“Talking about Merriwell?” grunted Browning, loafing up and leaning lazily against the fence. “Don’t worry about his failing. You never knew him to fail in anything.”
“Not even in waking you up and getting you onto the eleven last fall,” laughed Hock Mason. “Why aren’t you in the baseball squad, Browning? You played with Merriwell’s ball-team last summer.”
“And got enough of it, too. It’s altogether too much like work, Old South Carolina; that’s why I’m not sweating in the cage every day.”
“If Merriwell were to show up now, he’d be pretty sure to drag you out in a hurry.”