“Errol Noyes. He did well enough except for a fumble that gave them their score. If it hadn’t been for that we’d have——”
“Fumbles will happen in the best regulated back-fields,” murmured Toby. “I think Noyes is pretty good, myself.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t,” answered Arnold impatiently, “but, man-alive, he isn’t in Will’s class! And if Will doesn’t get back——”
“Doesn’t get back! Who says he won’t get back?”
“That’s what Fanning thinks. He’s all cut-up about it. They’re going to take an X-ray to-morrow. The doc thinks he will have to keep off it for a month.”
“Gee, that is tough! I didn’t realize what you meant! Of course, Noyes isn’t the player that Curran is, but he’s pretty good. Who else have you got?”
“Winfield, but he’s no earthly use.” Arnold was gloomily silent for a moment. Then he gave vent to an explosive: “By jingo, Toby!”
“What?” Toby brought a startled gaze back from the darkening world outside the window. Arnold was staring at him fixedly.
“Nothing,” answered Arnold slowly. But he kept on staring in a curious, rapt way until Toby said in a patient, kindly voice: “It’s all right, Arn. It’s me, Toby. I room here with you, you know. That’s my bed over there. Don’t you remember me? Try to think, Arn!”
“Shut up,” laughed the other. “I—I just thought of something.”