“Yes, you think anything Driscoll says or does is right,” jeered Mart. “If he told you to stand on your head for an hour in the middle of the field and wave your legs you’d do it.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, he’s a good coach. He showed that last year.”
“By letting Kenwood lick us?”
“By not letting her lick us worse than she did, son. When Driscoll took hold everything was at sixes and sevens. The other coach had gone off in a huff and half the team were for him and half for the captain and there was the dickens to pay generally. Well, Driscoll stepped in and paid no attention to anything that had happened. When the captain tried to tell him about the fuss he just said: ‘I don’t want to hear anything about it. I’m here to turn out a football team. What happened last week or yesterday doesn’t concern me in the least. I’m beginning today. Now then, let’s get at it.’”
“Well,” said Mart, “I hope he justifies your belief in him, old chap. Personally, I don’t like the way he brushes his hair. I never yet saw a fellow with a cowlick who amounted to a hill of beans. Did you, Rowland?”
“I don’t think I ever noticed.”
“Well, you study it and you’ll find I’m right. Who do you know? Met many of the fellows yet?”
“Not a great many. I guess I know twenty or thirty.”
“Twenty or thirty! Geewhillikins! I’d say that was going some. You’re a good mixer, Rowland. I’ll bet I didn’t know ten when I’d been here a month.”
“Who were the other nine?” asked Brad, drily. “I was one.”