“Call it the course, old thing,” laughed Arnold. “It’s easier on the tongue. But I thought you finished strong with Latin last year.”
“I did pretty well in spring term, but it looks tougher this fall. And I’ve got Collins this year, and every one says he’s a heap stricter than Townsend.”
“Well, he is, I suppose, but he’s a mighty good teacher. You get ahead faster with Collins, I think. Anyway, it won’t look so bad when you’ve got into it, Toby. Besides, I dare say I can help you a bit now and then.”
“You,” jeered Toby with a very, very hollow laugh. “You’ll be so full of football for the next two months you won’t know I’m alive! A nice outlook for me, I don’t think! When I’m not bathing you with arsenic—or is it arnica?—or strapping your broken fragments together I’ll have to listen to you yapping about how it was you missed a tackle, or got your signals mixed. Arn, as a companion you’ll be just about as much use as a—a——”
“Don’t overtax that giant intellect of yours, old thing. It’s too hot. Wonder where the crowd is. You don’t suppose those fellows are all that are going to report?”
“It’s not three yet. Probably the rest of them preferred to stay sensibly in the shade while they had the chance. Wish I had! Arn, is that what’s-his-name over there?”
“No, that’s thingumbob. Whom do you mean?”
“The little man in the blue sweater-coat talking to Fanning. See him?”
“Yes. I guess it must be. Isn’t very big, is he? Fan said last night, though, that he talked a heap of sense. I’m going over. Come along and meet him.”