"Only play I could suggest would be for him to put in the first and second teams at the same time," declared Phil. "Then we might have a chance to win by sheer weight of numbers!"
"Oh, it's not as bad as that," replied Milt, defensively. "If Speed just holds to his regular form this year, he'll give Hamilton plenty of trouble. He's crazy to make up for his fumble in last season's game. Have you seen him lately?"
"Not in three days. Have you?"
"No. I called around at his dorm yesterday but he wasn't in. About time we got together again. Speed's a great guy."
"And a mighty sweet football player," complimented Phil. "Well, here we are—outside the sanctum of the man who controls the destinies of Medford pigskin chasers. Shall I rap?"
"Sure—don't you see it says 'private'?"
A voice bade the callers to "come in!" and Phil and Milt presently found themselves standing before the genial-faced coach.
"Sit down!" Coach Brock invited, motioning to chairs. And when the two wondering visitors were seated, he came straight to the point with: "I understand you fellows know Speed Bartlett very well?"
Phil and Milt exchanged glances.
"Well ... er ... yes, sir ... we ...!"