“I suppose so; yes.”
“Don’t do it if it’s going to hurt you,” sneered the other, turning away to catechise the next candidate. Evan looked after him angrily and then turned to his nearest neighbor, who happened to be Mr. George Washington Jell, resplendent in a new pair of khaki trousers which, because they had to be of generous proportions about the waist, fell ungracefully half-way to his feet.
“Who’s that chap?” asked Evan.
“Edgar Prentiss. He’s manager. He’s pretty much the whole show, for that matter. He and Hop are as thick as thieves, and Hop does about as Prentiss says. He’s no good; I hope he stubs his toe.”
“So do I,” agreed Evan, with enthusiasm. Jelly beamed on him.
“He’s a regular cad; no one likes him—except Hop. I made a good joke about him last year. Want to hear it?”
“Yes,” said Evan, good-naturedly. “What was it?”
“It’s a conundrum. What is a foot-ball manager? Give it up? He’s the captain’s apprentice. See? Prentiss—apprentice?”
