“I’ll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him,” said Tom with a laugh.
“No, thanks; he’s satisfied, but it’s hard lines that he can’t play,” observed the bearer of the apology.
“That’s not my fault,” said Phil.
“No, I suppose not. Well, I’ll be going,” and, having filled the room with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door.
“Whew!” cried Tom. “Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had been disinfected!”
“Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like a good pipe or a cigar, but I’m blessed if I can go those coffin nails! Ah, that air smells good,” and he breathed in deep of the September air at the window.
Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the “sporty freshman,” as he began to be called. There was some disappointment, among the students who liked a “mill,” but as there were sure to be fights later in the term, they consoled themselves.
Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect. Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the ’varsity (which was the goal of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub.
“But I’ll get even with Clinton for this,” he said more than once to his crony, who eagerly assented.
Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast developing into a “rattling good player,” as Holly Cross said. Tom was not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran mile after mile to better his wind and speed.