“What’s that?” yawned Browning. “How do you define ennui?”
“I can define it,” declared Ready, at once. “It’s when you’re tired of doing nothing and too lazy to do something.”
“That’s what’s ailed Bruce ever since the football season closed,” nodded Frank. “I had begun to fancy that Bruce had reformed—that he’d put laziness behind him forever. Why, he trained like a slave, and he worked like a fiend to reduce flesh. He was in the very pink of condition the day he went onto the field in the Harvard game. Looked healthy and handsome.”
“Thanks,” rumbled the lazy giant. “Bow to the gentleman for me, please, Ready. It’s too much of a job for me to rise. I know I was a perfect Apollo, but the task of being an Apollo was too great a strain. I had to throw it up.”
“But not till we had downed Harvard beautifully,” said Starbright, his fair, handsome face glowing. “Oh, they thought they had us! They came mighty near it in the first half, and——”
“Gave me heart-disease,” put in Dashleigh. “I’ll never get over it. Sometimes I wake up nights now, yelling, ‘Three yards more and Harvard’ll have a touch-down! Hold ’em, boys—hold ’em!’”
“That was Bart’s constant cry,” said Browning. “He begged us separately and collectively to hold ’em, but the only thing that saved the day was Merry’s appearance on the field at the close of the game. They had us going all right in that half, and they’d have scored in another minute.”
“But you made a gallant fight,” said Frank, his eyes flashing—“a fight to be remembered always. I am proud of every man on the team.”
“Yah!” muttered Hodge sourly. “Are you proud of that dog Morgan? I don’t believe it!”
“In a certain way, I am proud of him,” asserted Merry positively.