“How’s this for luck?” asked Arthur miserably. “I can stand not playing football any more this fall, but what about pole-vaulting? I’ll make a fine Track Team captain if I have to hobble around with a cane!”
“It isn’t as bad as that, is it?” asked Gerald anxiously. “What did the doctor say?”
“Oh, he didn’t say much of anything. Said it would be all right in a week or two, but that I’d have to be careful of it for a month or so after I got out. I asked him if it would interfere with pole work and he just hemmed and hawed and looked wise in that silly way doctors have. I’d like to kick him!”
“Why, of course it will be all right by spring, Arthur,” Gerald said with conviction. “Look at the people who sprain their ankles and wrists and—and things every day!”
“Well, why didn’t he say so, then?” asked Arthur crossly. “Besides, pole-vaulting puts a lot of work on a fellow’s knees, and if mine is stiff and creaky I won’t be able to do ten-feet-six!”
“Oh, sure you will! Buck up, Arthur. Tell me about the game.”
“The game? Oh, it was all right, I guess. Tom was a wonder to-day; went through ’em as though they were paper. And Hammel was a dandy, too, even if he did miss two goals.”
“How did Dan play?”
“Rotten, if you want the unvarnished truth, Gerald. I don’t know what’s the matter with Dan. I suppose, though, it’s just being captain that’s queering his game. He dropped two passes to-day and was as slow as molasses down the field. I guess Dan’s gone fine.”