PHIL SAVES WALLOPS
They were talking the game over in their room—Phil, Sid and Tom. Sid, from the effects of the strong liquid which Gerhart had substituted for the liniment, still had to carry his hand in a sling, but the fingers were slowly losing their stiffness.
“Where you fellows made a mistake,” Sid was saying, as he moved about on the creaking old sofa to get into a more comfortable position, “where you fellows made a mistake was in not doing more kicking early in the game.”
“Oh, I suppose you could have run things better than Phil did?” suggested Tom, not altogether pleasantly.
“Not better, but different. You should have tired them out, and then smashed their line all to pieces.”
“It wasn’t altogether such easy smashing as you would suppose, sitting and watching the game from the grandstand, was it, Tom?” came from Phil.
“Not exactly,” responded the left-end, as he rubbed his shoulder, which he had bruised making a hard tackle. “They were as tough as nails. I suppose we did fairly well, considering everything.”
“All but winning,” spoke Sid drowsily. “You didn’t do that, you know. Now be fair; did you?”
“Oh, cut it out, you old would-be philosopher!” cried Phil, twisting around in the easy chair to reach something to throw at his chum. All he could find was a newspaper, and he doubled that up. It missed Sid, and hitting an ink bottle on the mantle, broke the phial, the black fluid flowing down over the wall and on the carpet.
“That’s a nice thing to do!” cried Tom. “Say, what do you want to make a rough house for? Isn’t this den bad enough as it is, without you doing that?”