“No! I am on the team. I’m one of the squad, Gus. When you’re on the squad you’re on the team, aren’t you?”
“Not necessarily. Last month there were more than eighty fellows on the squad, old son. Mean to tell me that they were all on the team?”
“Different now,” growled Babe. “Only twenty-six. The kid’s right, Gus. Shut up.”
“Maybe,” went on Joe uncomfortably, “when I’d write home about the games I’d sort of let them think I—I had more to do with them than I had.”
“Maybe,” said I, “seeing that you’ve only played in one, and then for about ten minutes!”
“Two,” said Joe, indignantly. “And I played all through one quarter in the Glenwood game!”
“Well, I guess it’s up to you to climb down, son, and tell your folks you ain’t the glaring wonder they think you are.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Joe, but he didn’t sound like he meant it. “I thought of getting sick, so I could go to the infirmary, but I guess it’s too late to develop anything now. If I’d got this letter yesterday——”
“Don’t be an ass,” advised Babe gruffly. “Spunk up and tell ’em the truth. No disgrace. Lots of fellows can’t play football. Look at Gus.”