“Misther Rinwood isn’t afther sayin’ a great dale,” observed Dennis Murphy, a sly twinkle in his eyes.
Renwood was sitting astride a chair, his elbows on the back of it, his chin resting on his hands. He grinned in a sickly manner, showing his lips were battered and bruised, the under one being swelled till it projected almost as far as his nose.
“My lips are too sore to make much talk,” he declared, rather thickly. “And some of my teeth are so loose I’m afraid they’ll fall out when I open my mouth.”
“Well, fellows,” said Sterndale, “we’re a sorry-looking crowd, but it’s no use to mope over being defeated. That’s only one out of three with Highland, and they took the first ball game last summer.”
“But they didn’t snow us under,” came quickly from Mayfair. “They barely won by a fluke.”
“And I made the fluke,” acknowledged John Smith, smiling grimly at the remembrance.
“But you saved us on the last game of the series by your great work in the box,” Mayfair hastened to assert. “You made up for that first game, old man.”
“And he did some splendid work in our game to-day,” said the captain of the eleven. “If we’d all done as well as Smith, we might have won the game.”
John flushed with pleasure, for such praise from Sterndale was most agreeable. Leon Bentley looked through a cloud of blue smoke, his lips curling scornfully, but he remained silent.
“That’s right, Sterndale,” agreed Dolph Renwood. “Smith was a perfect whirlwind. Several times he did great work at interference, even though he was playing back of the line. If he’d been in his old position——”