“Oh, pretty well, I guess. He hasn’t said so, but when he doesn’t growl about a thing I know it’s all right. Last week he kept telling how hard they made him work and saying he was going to quit, but he’s shut up about it lately.”
A few minutes afterward, going down to the floor below, Toby shook his head dubiously. “It’s funny the way I make up my mind to things lately without knowing it. When I went upstairs I thought I was going to be firm with Beech and stay out of it. Then, first thing I knew, I’d decided to keep on! Wonder if there’s something wrong with my bean!”
Back in Number 12, Toby found a scrawl from Arnold bidding him follow to Frank’s room in Clarke, but he crumpled it up and, after a moment’s reflection, dropped it in the waste-basket and settled himself at the table. He got in some good licks of study that evening and was annoyingly superior and virtuous when Arnold returned at bedtime.
The next afternoon Toby took his togs back to the gymnasium. Fortunately, although he had given up his locker, no one had secured it. If Coach Burtis knew of his defection the day before he made no sign. Grover Beech, however, nodded commendingly, and, or so Toby thought, Roy Frick, at present the most promising of the quarter-backs, viewed his return with a noticeable lack of cordiality. For several afternoons Toby toiled and drudged willingly and contentedly. Mr. Burtis was allowing but three scrimmages a week, and in none of them did Toby appear. The fact puzzled the boy considerably, but he kept his puzzlement to himself. Even Bird, who could not be considered first-class quarter-back material by any stretch of imagination, got in for a few minutes in each practice game. Toby invariably retired to the bench when the line-up came and, blanket-swathed, watched and wondered throughout the ten or fifteen minute periods. On one such occasion he found a seat beside George Tubb. He and George had met and spoken before, but only briefly. To-day Toby viewed George with real surprise. Seen at close quarters, the younger fellow showed the results of a week of football work very plainly. He had a much better color, looked several pounds thinner—and considerably harder—and had lost some of the discontent usually so eloquently expressed by his countenance. But there was plenty of the old George W. Tubb left, as Toby soon discovered.
“They’ve got me playing end,” said George. “It’s a rotten position. I told that big guy with the swelled head that I wanted——”
“Meaning the coach?” asked Toby.
“Sure! I told him I was a half-back, but he thinks he knows it all.”
“Too bad,” commented Toby innocently, “because, of course, a fellow can’t do good work out of his right position. I suppose you’re making rather a mess of end, Tubb.”
“Who says that?” demanded George, with a scowl.
“Why, no one. I just thought, from what you said——”