“Then you and Joe ought to hit it off!” exclaimed Ricky. “Joe’s crazy to pitch, and you two can make up a private battery, and use the room for a cage.”
[CHAPTER IX]
THE SHAMPOO
Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about “punts” and “forward passes,” the chances for this end or that fullback—how the Bulldog sized up against Princeton and Harvard.
Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the ’varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub.
“We’re going to have a great team!” declared Ricky, as he walked back from practice with Joe one day.
“I’m sure I hope so,” spoke our hero. “Have you had a chance?”
“Well, I’m one of the subs, and I’ve reported every day. They kept us tackling the dummy for quite a while, and I think I got the eye of one of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that I don’t know—it’s a fierce fight,” and Ricky sighed.