“‘Play separately,’ as one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence said,” interrupted Phil, with a laugh.
“No, I’m serious,” protested Sid. “If we’re going to act that way, Tom, we might as well give up the team now, and also all hopes of ever winning the championship this year. It’s bad enough to have Bricktop and Ed off, without having you kicking up a fuss about Bascome.”
“Who’s kicking up a fuss, you old misogynist?” demanded the end, limping along. “I only said I couldn’t play with Bascome as well as I could with Dan, and I’d like to shift.”
“And if you do that it means that some one else will have to shift, and that will throw the whole team into confusion. No, you stick it out, Tom.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, each busy with his own thoughts. The sun slanted across the campus, and glinted through the stained glass windows of Booker chapel, coloring the sward with a wonderful combination of violet and red. Back of the main college was a bank of purplish and olive tinted clouds, which Tom paused to gaze at in admiration.
“Look, fellows!” he exclaimed, softly. “It’s just like one of those pictures of Venice, painted by what’s his name.”
“Yes, great artist,” put in Phil. “Second cousin to ‘who’s this.’”
“No, but look at those colorings,” protested Tom. “Did you ever see such cloud masses? The only thing about them is that they tell of fall coming on, and winter and leafless trees, and——”
“Oh, for cats’ sake cut it out!” groaned Sid. “You must be in love again. Got a new girl?”