“May I ask on what you base your judgment?” asked Gerald.
“On lots of things! On the players, and the coaching system——”
“You don’t approve of our coaching system?”
“I certainly don’t! Payson works the fellows like a lot of dray horses, for one thing. And he’s old-fashioned, too. He sticks to old formations and plays that were worn out when Walter Camp was a baby. And look at the way he runs practice! Every fellow doing about what he likes! When does he begin to teach team-play, I’d like to know? In Saturday’s game there was about as much coördination”—Gerald blinked—“as there is in a pack of hens!”
“You mean a swarm of hens,” corrected Gerald gently. “Well, all that may be true. I wish, anyway, you’d mention it to Payson; he ought to be warned. But—but, my caustic and critical friend, we’ll send Broadwood home with its tail between its legs!”
“Maybe, but you don’t believe it hard enough to bet anything on it!”
“Merely because betting is not allowed and because I have been taught, besides, that it isn’t nice. Still——” Gerald paused and considered. “Still, we might perhaps come to an agreement that would—er—add a personal interest to the outcome of the game. Let me see, Cotton. I’ll tell you!” Gerald viewed him in mild triumph. “If Broadwood wins I’ll invite you to spend Christmas recess with me in New York and give you a good time, all differences and animosities forgotten. On the other hand, if Broadwood is defeated you will—what the dickens will you do?” Cotton opened his mouth to speak, but Gerald went on. “I have it! If Yardley wins you will stand on the steps of Oxford at five o’clock, give a cheer for Yardley, and proclaim a certain passage from a play of one William Shakespeare which I will indicate when the time comes.”
“That’s silly,” growled Cotton.
“Maybe; what’s the difference? Do you agree?”