“Gee, you must have had a grouch,” he exclaimed wonderingly. “Never knew you had a temper like that, Toby!”
“Well, I have,” answered Toby dryly. “Of course, it was a silly thing to do, but he had no business lamming me with that wet ball!”
Sid grinned. “Well, it wasn’t his fault the ball was wet, was it?” he asked.
Toby managed a weak smile. “It’s his fault he will have to chase after it,” he answered.
But of course Frick didn’t have to do any such thing. There is always some obliging person about in such an emergency, and it was young Lovett, hopeful candidate for end position, who scurried off and brought it back to an indignant Gyp. Then practice began and every one had other things to think of for the succeeding hour. Now and again Toby and Roy Frick encountered each other, on which occasions Frick glowered or sneered and Toby pretended to have forgotten the other’s existence. Toby was rather ashamed of himself by now and quite willing to consider the affair closed.
There was no scrimmage this afternoon, and at a little after four the squad was dismissed. Taking only time enough to wrap themselves in blankets, the Second hurried in a body across to the other gridiron and won a ripple of laughter as they appeared like so many blue wraiths, around the corner of the covered stand. It seemed like an accident, but possibly wasn’t, that George Tubb scuttled into the seat next to Toby.
“Guess that guy would have mopped the ground up with you if the fellows hadn’t butted in,” observed George with one of his malicious grins. “He’s a lot heavier than you, Tucker.”
“I had a lucky escape then,” replied Toby. “Know what the score is here?”
“Nothing to nothing. Forest Hill’s too fast for those First Team yaps. Say, I wish Frick would try to get gay with me some day! I don’t like that blow-hard.”
“Perhaps he will,” said Toby pleasantly. “At least, you can hope, Tubb.”