“Surest thing you know,” asserted Fanning. “If Henry doesn’t work off his conditions—”
“There’s only you and Lamson,” interrupted Halliday. “Unless they swipe some fellow from the second, and I don’t know who he’d be. You’re a heap better than Warren, aren’t you?”
“I—I suppose I’m a little better,” allowed Toby.
“Yes, and Warren’s a lot better than that new fellow, Guild. All you’ll have to do is to beat out Lamson, and if you can’t do that I hope you choke.” This was from Fanning. Arnold laughed.
“I’d be glad to see Toby get it,” he said, “but I don’t believe Lamson is as bad as you fellows think he is. Anyway, Crowell is satisfied with him.”
“Crowell doesn’t let you know whether he’s satisfied or dissatisfied,” said Halliday. “Still, I don’t care who plays goal for us as long as he stops Broadwood from scoring. That’s the main thing, I guess. I’ve got to trot. Coming along, Fan? No more juice of the sun-kissed orange, thanks, Homer. I’m full of it now. I’ll bet I’ve got enough different kinds of chemicals inside me to stock a laboratory!”
“You have not!” denied Homer indignantly. “That’s pure fruit-juice untouched by the human hand and passed by the board of censors.”
Halliday and Fanning took their departure, laughing, and Toby, so far a very silent member of the party, broached the object of his visit.
“I wish you’d go over to Greenburg with me in the morning, Arn, and help me buy some leg-guards and a pair of gloves. Will you?”
“Of course, if I can. What time?”