“Nor yet listen to the clock tick,” added Sid. “Now, let’s talk of something else.”
“Football,” suggested Phil, quickly. “What do you fellows think about our chances, anyhow?”
“Not much,” asserted the end. “Sam and Pete aren’t doing as well as they used to do on the scrub.”
“Stage fright, maybe,” came from Sid.
“It’s likely,” admitted the quarter-back. “I remember when I first played on the ’varsity, I couldn’t seem to see straight, I thought I was going to miss every tackle I tried for, and I was mortally afraid of dropping the ball. They’ll get over it.”
“I hope so,” spoke Tom. “I wish Bascome wasn’t playing on my end.”
“Why?” asked Phil, quickly.
“Well, you know he rather stood in with Langridge and Gerhart when they were here, and, though he isn’t as mean as they were, he isn’t exactly in our crowd. I can’t play with him the same way I can go into a game with the other fellows. I think I’ll ask Kindlings to let me shift to the other end.”
“Don’t you do it!” cried Sid, quickly. “Look here, Tom Parsons, the surest way to have a team go to pieces is to have personal feelings crop out among the players. We’ve got to play together, or——”