CHAPTER VIII
TUBB TRIES FOOTBALL
Arnold was interested and amused, but he didn’t approve, and he said so. “You’ll have those freaks hanging around your neck for the rest of the year, T. Tucker,” he remonstrated. “You can’t make over a poor thing like this Tubb, or the other chap, from what you say of him. What do you expect to do? Play tennis with Rumsey——”
“Ramsey,” Toby corrected meekly.
“Rum is more like it, I guess,” accepted Arnold grimly. “Anyhow, do you mean to take him on at tennis every day until he loses his fat and—and finds a soul? Besides, you can’t play tennis for beans!”
“N-no, but I dare say I’m good enough for Ramsey. Oh, I guess I have made a faux pas, as we say in French, but, hang it, Arn, you can’t see a couple of idiots making fools of themselves——”
“Idiots generally are fools, aren’t they? Look here, Toby, something’s gone wrong with your alleged intellect. You didn’t used to hunt trouble like this. You were beautifully—er—what’s the word?—beautifully aloof. Used to mind your own business better than any chap I ever knew. Now look at you! Going out of your way to get mixed up with all sorts of queer fellows like this Tubb and this other freak. Isn’t young Lingard enough of a warning to you?”
“Tommy doesn’t love me any more,” answered Toby pathetically. “And I just must have affection, Arn!”
“Affection!” grunted his chum. “What you need is a swift kick, my son! All right, all right, go on with your missionary work, but don’t ask me to help you out. And, for the love of lemons, Toby, don’t have these weird friends of yours in here!”