“I hear there isn’t going to be any training table this year.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” asked Stuart pityingly.
“Coach. He doesn’t believe in ’em. He told me so yesterday. Came down on the train with him. Says all we need is plenty of plain food and no coddling. Told him I didn’t care how plain it was if it was plenty.”
Stuart frowned. “That’s nonsense,” he declared. “We’ve always had training tables here, and I guess we’ll continue to.”
“All right. You tell ’em. Whitey, for the love of Mike, feed me! All I’ve had’s a glass of milk.”
“Yes, and it was mine,” observed Howdy. “Feed the brute, Whitey.”
“Guess the new chap’s got a lot of revolutionary ideas,” went on Wallace. “Said a mouthful about straight football. Hates stunt plays, I guess. Strong on fundamentals, too. So am I. We agreed perfectly. Made a big hit with him.”
“You would,” said Jack scathingly. “You’d agree with any one, you old sycophant.”
“What’s that?” asked Wallace untroubledly. “An elephant’s little boy? I deny it. You’re thinking of Joe.”