“It’s pretty late in the day to make a change now, but we may have to do it. The team was far better as it stood originally, with Smith on the end and Linton next to him; but you had to pull Smith back to half to fill Scott’s place.”
“Perhaps I don’t fill it,” said the tall boy; “but you bet I’ll do my level best.”
“You’re all right, John,” declared the captain of the eleven, laying an arm across Smith’s shoulders with something like affectionate familiarity. “You’re just as good a man as Scott was at half, but it has weakened the line taking you off the end.”
And this was the same John Smith who had once been called the hoodoo of the baseball nine, derisively nicknamed “Jonah,” and treated with inconsideration or positive contempt by Richard Sterndale. Having proved his worth, he was now held in esteem by the very ones who had entertained nothing but scorn for him, and no more was the opprobrious nickname applied to him.
Dennis Murphy beamed with satisfaction and pleasure. In the days of Smith’s disgrace the Irish lad had been the only one of the village boys to side with him and stand by him.
“Thot b’y’s all roight wheriver ye put him, Misthur Sterndale,” he declared, loyally.
“Yes, Smith’s all right,” agreed Dolph, promptly; “but we weakened the line by taking him off. If the Highlanders ever discovered just how easy our right end is, they could raise hob with us by hammering at it all the time—and they will discover it, sure as fate.”
Renwood appeared worried, and his manner impressed the others.
“What can we do?” asked the captain. “What would you advise, Dolph?”
“Bentley is a better man than Boland, if he will do his best. If we could get him back into his old position as left tackle and put Linton into Boland’s place, it would strengthen the right end some.”