George eyed him suspiciously. Toby’s tone had suggested that he viewed the idea with favor. George grunted. “Well, if he ever does he will get a lot more’n he expects,” he growled. “You ought to have handed him a punch instead of just pushing him, Tucker. He’ll be after you the first chance he gets. They say he’s a clever scrapper, too.”
“Do they?” asked Toby indifferently. “Then there’ll probably be enough left for you to tackle, Tubb.”
The third period ended just then, and Toby’s gaze, turning away from the players, encountered Tubb’s. For some reason Tubb colored, and then blurted: “Say, you never came around to the room like you said you were going to, Tucker. You’re getting sort of choosey, too, I suppose.”
“I called last week, Tubb. You were out. Didn’t Ramsey tell you?”
“Yes. I forgot. How’d you know I’d be out?” Again that objectionable grin! Toby frowned.
“I didn’t,” he said shortly. Then: “Can’t you ever be decent, Tubb?” he asked. “This thing of always having a chip on your shoulder is a bit tiresome.”
“I haven’t any chip.” Tubb laughed a mixture of apology and defiance. “I’ve got some—some pride, though! No fellow needs to know me if he doesn’t want to!”
“That goes without saying,” answered Toby dryly.
George scowled darkly. “Well, it’s so. A lot of you guys with wrist-watches make me tired! Gee, if——”