"Guess about a hundred and forty-one or two," said Frank, straightening up while the muscles of his back protested.
"Too light, too light," said the coach, shaking his head. "If you had another ten or fifteen pounds on you, you'd do. But Bostwick may be able to get into the game by Friday," he added, and passed along to his seat.
Walking over from the training table that night, Turner railed bitterly at Frank's luck. "You had a chance, a bare chance to get in at quarterback for a part of the game anyway, in spite of your bad start, and now you are dished, sure as shooting. The Captain will be O. K. It didn't look like a bad injury to his knee."
"Can't be helped," said Frank. "We've got to take our medicine in this old game. That's part of the training at Yale, isn't it?"
"It is, but it's not easy stuff to swallow."
"Well, there's nothing to do but swallow it, and I'm going to be game, but it hurts. Bostwick may not make it, and I may get in against Princeton, after all."
Turner shook his head. "I don't think there's a chance; you are only filling in. I can see the handwriting on the wall. He'll come back, and you will be his substitute. The only chance is that he may get hurt again, but I hope he won't for he is the best we've got on that side of the line."
"I hope he comes back," said Frank fervently, "because with me in there I wouldn't give three cents for our chances."
"Which are not any too good with the best we have."