“You seem to be willing to stick on the bench all season,” he said aggrievedly, “but I don’t see any fun in that. If I—”
“How do you mean, stick on the bench?” demanded Martin. “I’m not going to stick on any bench. Haven’t you noticed how pale and wan Bob is getting to look? He won’t last much longer. I think it’s sleeping sickness or something else slow and certain. He won’t acknowledge he’s sick, but I can tell! There’s a worried look about his eyes and Cal Grainger says he sleeps more than he used to.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Willard, grinning.
“Fact, though! You look at Bob some time when he doesn’t know he’s—ah—under observation and you’ll see what I mean. Sleeping sickness is very insidious, Brand, but always fatal. I’m sorry for Bob, of course, but I’m not hypocritical about it!”
“Bob will be playing guard and you’ll be lugging the water pail when we meet Kenly,” retorted Willard. “I’m in earnest, though. Why shouldn’t I try for end instead?”
“Because you’re a half-back, sonny. Playing end is something else again, and you’d have to learn a lot of new tricks, and the season might be over before you’d learn ’em.”
“Well, I’d be ready for next year,” murmured Willard.
“If that’s all you’re looking for, stay where you are. They’ll be using half-backs as well as ends next year, unless the Rules Committee gets gay again!”