“Yes, sir, I know,” murmured Toby.
“Know what?”
“That he will play goal if he gets off probation.”
“Hm; well, if he does it will be your fault, Tucker.”
“My fault, sir? You mean that—that—”
“I mean that if you get along the way I expect you to it won’t matter a mite to us whether Henry gets back or not! You tell yourself every day, Tucker, that you are going to make a better goal-tend than Henry or Lamson. Then prove you’re right. Good-night!”
After the door had closed behind his visitor Toby did a most undignified thing. He took a run across the worn old carpet and plunged headfirst onto the bed. It was certainly taking chances, but the bed, although it rattled and groaned and creaked in all its joints, withstood the assault. After that Toby wriggled his feet to the floor, sat up on the side of the cot and, with hands plunged deep into his pockets and gaze fixed on the opposite wall, muttered “Gee!” ecstatically. And after a moment he said it again: “Gee!” Just like that.