“Sure, they all do,” asserted Phil, and as if in confirmation of his words, there tinkled out a silvery stroke at five-thirty. “What’d I tell you?” he asked, in triumph. “Where was I?” as he looked at the piece of paper. “Oh, yes: ‘strikes the hours and half-hours. The undersigned will give it back for their small nickel-plated alarm clock, rather battered, but still in the ring. Doesn’t strike at all.’ How’s that, fellows?”
“All right,” said the end, as he laced his shoe loosely, for he had bandaged his ankle. “Let’s have it, and I’ll put my name down, then you fellows can go down and stick it up. I’m going to stretch out;” and, scribbling his name on the notice, Tom threw himself on the couch, with due regard for its age and weakness.
“I’ll fix it up,” volunteered Phil.
[CHAPTER IX]
A CLASH WITH LANGRIDGE
In the meanwhile football practice went on, and the team seemed to be getting into better shape, though there was much to be desired. Sam and Pete did better, though they were uncertain, and there was much ragged work, both in offensive and defensive plays, over which coach and captain shook their heads.
“Randall has got to do better than that,” said Mr. Lighton, “if she wants to stay at the head of the league.”
“Right!” agreed Kindlings. “Bricktop is coaching Sam all he can, but it needs more than coaching to make a guard.”
“Hope for the best,” suggested the coach. “I wonder how our freshmen will make out Saturday against Boxer Hall?”