“Search me, Dick. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he just hit on that by chance.”
“I don’t believe it. Perhaps he saw that thing in the Sentinel—But he couldn’t! Well, I’m sorry I suspected you, Stan.”
“Don’t mention it,” replied the other cheerfully. “And look here, don’t get worried over the fellows hearing about it. Of course they will, and of course they’ll rag you a bit, but it’s only a good joke, Dick, and that’s all they’ll think it. It isn’t a patch on the things some fellows have had to stand!”
“N-no, I suppose it isn’t. But—did you hear one idiot there tonight ask how much I paid for it? Maybe they’ll think I did pay for it, Stan?”
“Oh, rot! That guy was just having some fun with you. They all know it was a joke, and they saw Rusty and Blash with us, and they’ll lay it to one of them. As a matter of fact, Dick, it’s a pretty good sign to have something like that sprung on you, because it means that you are somebody. If fellows don’t like you they don’t trouble to work practical jokes on you, old top! There’s that satisfaction if you want it!”
[CHAPTER XXI]
TWO SCRAPS OF PAPER
Time seemed to fly that next week. Sunday vanished almost before Dick knew it was there, and he scarcely found time to write his letters, one to his father and one to Sumner White. The latter was rather a difficult missive, for he couldn’t manage to get all the cordiality into it that he thought Sumner would expect to find. The words looked all right, but they sounded insincere. Then Monday fled quickly, the afternoon occupied with much hard work on the gridiron for the second-string players and a light warming-up for those who had borne the brunt of the battle against Chancellor. Tuesday brought everyone back into strenuous practice and the afternoon was given over to trying out five new plays against the Second and to a grilling signal drill. The evening sessions continued as well. Mass meetings became almost nightly occurrences and Parkinson sang and yelled and became daily more enthusiastic and more filled with football spirit. Every line of news or rumour from Kenwood was avidly read and discussed and the tide of patriotism ran high. Wednesday noon brought another epistle from Sumner White, a brief and rather chaotic note which was as follows:
“Don’t pay any attention to the Whitworth game. We weren’t out to win and we saved our best men for Thursday. At that the score wasn’t bad and Whitworth wouldn’t have scored the second touchdown if we hadn’t had most of our subs in. Well, it’s all settled for next Friday. Charlie and Will and Jim are coming, and one other. That’s five of us. Theo can’t go. His mother’s sick. Went to the hospital today. And Townsend’s backed out. Some of the girls are crazy to go, but of course they can’t. Everything lovely here. We’re going to win on Thanksgiving, that’s final, Dick. Well, see you Saturday, old scout. So long. Sum.”