“Not a bit of it, Joe, honest. Listen. Rusty says you’d probably get a place this year if you tried hard. After all, experience is what counts, and you’ve had two years of it. And you’re a mighty clever guy when it comes to running, Joe. You’re fast and you can dodge like a rabbit.”
“Yes, maybe. And I can get the signals twisted and I can score as well for the other fellow as for us! I’m a plain nitwit at football, Gus, old darling, and you ought to know it. So had Rusty. Besides—” and Joe grinned—“what would I want to play any more for? I’ve got my letter, haven’t I?”
“Letter?” said Gus. “You’ve got three of ’em; baseball, football and hockey. If it comes to that, what do you want to play any more baseball for?”
“Oh, that’s different. I’m captain, you see.”
“Sure. And I’m football captain. So you ought to play football.”
The logic wasn’t quite clear to Joe, but he didn’t challenge it. He only shook his head again. “Anything to oblige you, Gus, but my duty is with the baseball crowd just now.”
“What’s the matter with letting Prince attend to ’em? What’s fall practice amount to, anyway? Any one can stand around and see that those guys get enough work. The job doesn’t need you. Besides, you could look ’em over now and then, couldn’t you?”
“But, my dear, good Gustavus,” protested Joe, “what’s the big idea? You’ve got Dave Hearn and Johnny Sawyer for half-backs, and maybe six or eight others, haven’t you? Why pick on me?”
“Sure, we’ve got Dave and Johnny and a fellow named Leary, a new guy, but that’s all we have got. The rest are a total loss. You know mighty well three half-backs aren’t enough to carry a team through a whole season. Johnny’s a fine plunger, a rattling guy for the heavy and rough business, but he’s as slow as cold cream when it comes to running. Dave’s good; he’s fine; but we need a couple others. You’re one of ’em. When do you start?”
Joe laughed impatiently. “I don’t start, you old idiot. I’ve told you I can’t.”