“Why—yes, I guess so. Three o’clock, is it? Nobody said anything to me about it and I’ve been so busy I didn’t think. It doesn’t seem possible it can be football time already!”
“’Tis, though. And it’s mighty near school time, too, worse luck! Only eight days more vacation. I guess you’re pretty sure of right tackle this year, Tom. Lyman’s too light for it and Berger’s a regular dub. We’re going to have a dandy team, all right, but we need you, you know.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll be out to-day if I possibly can. Monday, anyway. Tell Connors, will you?”
Billy shrugged his shoulders. “All right, but if you take my advice you’ll show up to-day. George is sort of huffy with you, it looks like. Had a row, you two?”
“N-no,” Tom hesitated. “No, we haven’t had any row. I suppose George Connors is sort of peeved with Willard and me because we started this automobile business and cut in on his dad.”
Billy whistled. “So that’s it? I wondered. He kind of acts as though he wanted to keep you off the team. I don’t suppose the fellows would stand for it, though. Still, George is captain and—well, if I were you I’d try my level best to get out to-day. So long. How’s The Ark running?”
“Fine, thanks. Much obliged. See you later.”
Tom went on thoughtfully. He was fond of football and was a good player, and he wondered whether George Connors was going to hold his grudge against him. If he did he could make it pretty hard sledding. Tom had fairly earned the position of right tackle last season, and he wanted to play it, but if Captain Connors was going to dislike him there wouldn’t be much fun for him on the gridiron. Well, he’d go out for practice to-day anyhow. And he could soon tell how the land lay.
At noon Willard appeared breathlessly with a telegram from Jimmy. A telegram was a good deal of an event in the lives of the boys and this one worked them up to a high pitch of excitement. The message had been sent from New York at eleven o’clock and said: “Back on eight-forty to-night. Got it. Meet me at station.”