“Excellent,” answered the coach promptly and emphatically. “A fine looking lot, I call them. What is your opinion of this year’s material, Mr. McCranie?”
The Laird produced a briar pipe and began to fill it. “About average, sir. Mr. Haynes, the more I see of the lads, sir, the more settled I become as to one conviction, which is that you can’t ever tell what’s in a pudding till you open the bag.”
“Meaning,” responded the other, “that good-looking bodies don’t always land first over the hurdles.”
“Exactly, sir. I’ve seen fine, upstanding lads licked by runts in my time, and I’ve seen promising teams just fairly fall to pieces during a season. Man, it’s not the shape of a lad’s body, or the muscles that play under his skin that counts. It’s what’s on the inside. It’s the spirit of him!”
“True,” assented Mr. Haynes.
“And that’s why, sir, when they say to me ‘What do you think of the team this year,’ or the squad, maybe, I tell them the same thing. ‘Wait till they’ve got their first black eye,’ I say, ‘and then ask me!’”
Mr. Haynes nodded gravely. “That’s what brings out the spirit,” he replied. He paused midway of the bridge and looked down into the slowly moving stream. “Any fish in this river?” he asked.
The Laird leaned an elbow on the railing, blew a cloud of smoke into the sunlight and shook his head sadly. “There used to be, sir. I’ve caught ten-inch trout further up. But three years ago they built a mill at the falls and now you’ll get nothing saving a shiner or two. It’s a shame, it is so!”
“Too bad! Ten inches, eh? That’s nice fishing. Flies or worms, Mr. McCranie?”