“My theory,” said Jimmy, yawning, “is that Standart has some—some hidden charm that we don’t know about, some golden nugget within the unattractive matrix of his—er—personality. It stands to reason, fellows, for no one could be all through the way Standart is outside. Why, just think, if he’s like this now, what must he have been at, say, five? No, sir, if he didn’t have some hidden virtue his nurse would have dropped him down a well!”
“Oh, bother Standart,” said Dud. “Let’s talk of something pleasant. I heard today that Manson is out of football for the season, that his leg is a lot worse than they’re letting on. Know anything about it, Monty?”
“He was out at the field this afternoon,” was the reply. “He coached me for a good half-hour.”
“Well, if he is gone for good it will play hob with the team,” said Dud. “Manson’s the best fullback we’ve had in years.”
“You forget that our friend, Mr. Crail, Mr. A. Monty Crail, is some fullback,” remarked Jimmy. “I’m hearing very good reports of him, very good indeed. Bonner and I are very hopeful about Crail.”
“I’ll bet Monty will play a corking game when he’s been at it a while,” replied Dud earnestly, “but you can’t expect any fellow to step into Manson’s shoes and walk off with them. Caner isn’t bad, but he’s not in the same class with Manson. Besides, who’s going to do the kicking?”
“Winslow,” said Monty. “And Brunswick. Brunswick’s all right at goals and he’s a peach of a punter.”
“But he can’t put them over the bar the way Manson can. We’ll be all right for punters, because Blake’s a mighty good punter and Gus Weston isn’t so poor, but if we lose Manson we’re going to be squarely up against it when it comes to drop-kicking.”
“A few minutes ago,” remarked Jimmy, “some gentleman present suggested that we talk of pleasant things. Since then I’ve heard nothing but hard-luck yarns. I’m going where the atmosphere is less humid. You fellows can stay right here, if you like, and keep on weeping. Only please don’t get the carpet too wet.”
“Where are you going?” asked Leon.