“That’s right,” agreed Weston. “I should think they could keep Yale a little more exclusive.”
“I agree with you,” came from the other. “Why I even understand that they are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons, and are working their way through, can join. It’s going to be fierce. But none of them will get in the Blue Ribbon Association,” he added, referring to an exclusive college organization.
“Nor the Anvil Club either,” added Weston. “This is all Hasbrook’s fault. He’s taken some silly notion to Matson, and he thinks he’s a wonderful pitcher. It seems they met somewhere, and Matson did him a favor. Now he’s taking advantage of it.”
“But he can pitch,” said De Vere, who, for all his snobbishness, was inclined to be fair.
“Yes, after a fashion, but he hasn’t anything on me. I won against Harvard last year.”
“So you did.”
“And I could do it again.”
“I believe you. Anyhow I think only the fellows in our own class—socially—should play. It makes it rather awkward, don’t you know, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn’t in your set. You’ve got to notice him, or there’d be a howl, I s’pose; but really some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this Matson doesn’t train in with us.”
“You’re right. But if things go the way I think he may not last very long.”
“How do you mean? Will he put up such a rotten game that they won’t stand for him?”