[CHAPTER XVIII]
DUFFIELD TAKES HOLD
“Talk about Falstaff’s army!” exclaimed Malcolm to Evan the next afternoon. “Did you ever see such an assortment?”
And Evan, rubbing his injured ankle reflectively and wondering whether it would stand an afternoon’s work, had to acknowledge, as he looked about him, that he never had. Practically every fellow who had joined the Independent Foot-ball Association had reported for practice. About half owned football togs and had donned them; the rest appeared in their old clothes and sweaters. There were old boys and young boys, big boys and little boys, tall boys and short boys, fat boys and slim boys. But, big or little, fat or slim, each was dominated by a splendid enthusiasm. Preparatory class youngsters shouldered their way about looking mighty important in immaculately new togs, while on the farthest edge of the group stood a thin, diffident senior who had at last gathered courage to do what he had longed to do for three years—try to be a football hero.
“Who’s the fat kid over there?” asked Malcolm. “It isn’t Jelly, is it? I thought he was on the Second.”
“He is—or was,” Evan replied. “That’s Jelly, though. O Jelly!” And when Mr. George Washington Jell had ambled across, grinning radiantly; “What are you doing here with the insurgents?” Evan demanded. “You’re a traitor or a spy, Jelly; which is it?”
“I’m a brand from the burning,” answered Jelly dramatically.
“Have you left the Second?” Malcolm asked.
“Sure! Think I’m going to stay there and work for Hopkins? Not much! I handed in my resignation this morning to Gus.”