“He certainly doesn’t seem to care much for me,” replied Joe, with a grim smile. “But I suppose it’s natural. Almost anyone would feel that way at the prospect of being replaced.”
“Oh, he makes me tired!” exclaimed Spike. “He ought to stand for Yale—not for Ford Weston. It’s the first time in a good many years that any player has placed himself above the team.”
“But Weston hasn’t done that yet.”
“No, but that’s what he’s scheming for. He as good as said that he’ll pitch for the ’varsity no matter what happens.”
“Who’s that? What’s up?” asked another voice, and, turning, the two chums saw Ricky Hanover. “Oh, you’re talking about Weston,” he added, as he noted the defeated pitcher walking away. “What’s he been saying?”
They told him, and Ricky, making a wry face, went on:
“So that’s how things are; eh? Well, if Weston tries that sort of game, I can see the finish of the Yale nine. It’ll be the tail end of the kite, and the championship will be in the soup. In fact it’s beginning to gravitate that way now, with the loss of this Cornell game.”
“But where does Weston get his pull?” demanded Spike. “How is it that they put him in to-day, when it was almost known that he couldn’t make good. And here was Joe all ready to go on the mound. You saw what he did when he got there and yet——”
“Spare my blushes! I’m a modest youth!” laughed Joe.