“No, but you ought to be,” growled Gus. “Look here, Joseph, we were talking about you this afternoon, Rusty and I, and we decided you’d have to come out.”
“Play football? Not on your life! Listen, Gus, I’ve got all the trouble I want right now. You and Rusty want to forget it!”
“Can’t be done. We need you. We’re short of men, as you know, and—”
“I didn’t know it,” exclaimed Joe suspiciously.
“Well, you would have if you’d heard what I’ve been telling you every day for three weeks! We’ve got a punk lot of backfield stuff, and we need more. We—”
“Thanks,” laughed Joe.
“We need more men, I mean. You’ve played two years already, Joe, and you know a lot more than some of those new morons that are trying for jobs. You’d be a lot of good out there if you’d come. How about it?”
“But I can’t, Gus! Who’s going to look after the baseball gang? There’s a good fortnight of practice ahead yet. Of course, after that, if you still insist, I’ll be glad to join your crowd of roughnecks. Just the same, I don’t see what use I can be. You know mighty well I’m no football player. I proved that last year, and—”
“How come? Look at what you did in the Mills game. Made every score yourself—”
“Shut up! I’m a dub at football, and every one knows it. What are you and Rusty trying to do, anyway? String me?”