“Oh, you make me tired!” wailed Arnold. “I thought that was all settled.”
“It is, now,” responded Toby cheerfully.
“But why?” demanded Arnold impatiently.
Toby explained, but Arnold refused to be satisfied. Somewhat to Toby’s relief, Frank interrupted soothingly. “Let him alone, Arn. I guess he’s right about it. It isn’t as if—well, what I mean is, he’s not absolutely necessary, you know. It isn’t as if he was on the First Team. The Second’s got plenty of material, and Toby’s not fooling himself into thinking he’s a wonderful player. They’ll worry along without him. No use spoiling a good hockey man to make a—a——”
“Punk football man,” supplied Toby pleasantly. “You aren’t flattering, Frank, but I guess you’re right.”
“No, he isn’t, he’s dead wrong,” said Arnold vehemently. “You could be a rattling good football player, Toby, a corking one! I know it! And now you’re queering everything. You make me sick. If you don’t dump those things back in that locker the first thing to-morrow morning I’ll—I’ll never forgive you, Toby!”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Toby. “You’re quite wrong about me as a football player, Arn. I’m pretty sure of that. Anyway, as Frank says, they don’t need me, and I do need that scholarship.”
“I hope you choke on it,” growled Arnold disgustedly, and relapsed into aggrieved silence.
But in spite of the certainty that he had decided wisely and rightly, Toby felt a trifle dissatisfied the next afternoon, and somewhat at a loose end. He determined to devote the first hour and a half after his final recitation to hard study, telling himself that he would have the room to himself and that Whitson would be delightfully quiet and conducive to work. Afterwards he would walk over and watch First Team practice for awhile. But, although he found the quietude and solitude he expected, it wasn’t so easy to put his mind on his books. The sunlit world outside called loudly, he couldn’t get comfortable in the chair and, in spite of good intentions, his mind insisted on wandering toward the gridiron. But he stuck it out to the prescribed moment and then fairly ran downstairs and into the late afternoon sunshine, uncomfortably conscious that he had spent an hour and a half to no purpose. Still, to-morrow he would do better, he promised. By the time he had seated himself in the grandstand, watching the First Team in a spirited practice game, he had recovered his spirits. On the further gridiron the Second was hard at it, but Toby decided to stay away from that quarter to-day. Grover Beech might say unpleasant things about “quitters,” and while Toby’s conscience was quite clear, he realized that the Second Team captain would have his own point of view. But although he managed to evade Beech for the time, a meeting was inevitable, and it occurred after supper that evening. They both left their tables at the same moment and came together at the door. Beech looked a trifle huffy.
“What’s the stupendous idea, Tucker?” he demanded. “You know we practice on Mondays just like any other day.”