“Say, are you going to keep that up this term?” demanded Phil wearily. “If you are, I’m going to apply to the courts for an injunction against you and your uncle.”
“Well,” continued Fenton with an injured air, “he was football coach here for some time, and my uncle says——”
“There he goes again!” cried Tom. “Step on him, Phil!”
But Ford, with a reproachful look, turned aside.
“I don’t see why there’s such a prejudice against my uncle,” he murmured to himself. But there wasn’t. It was against the manner in which the nephew ceaselessly harped on what his relative said, though Ford was never allowed to tell what it was.
The Randall eleven was fairly on edge when they indulged in light practice Saturday morning, preparatory to leaving for Fairview, where the first game of the season was to take place.
“Feel fit, Tom?” asked Sid, who had to carry his left hand in a sling. Dr. Marshall had been unable to learn anything from the druggist that put up the liniment, and the cause for the queer stiffness remained undiscovered.
“As fit as a fiddle,” replied the lad. “How about you, Phil?”
“I’m all to the Swiss cheese, as the poet had it. Is it about time to start?”
“Nearly. We’re going in a special trolley. Does your shoulder pain you any?”