“You’re certain of playing part of the time in the Kenwood game, Dick,” said Stanley. “Stone is the only fellow you’ve got to be scared of, and he isn’t going to last the game through. Cardin is no better than you are now and I miss my guess if you don’t come faster the rest of the season than he does. And Pryne’s only so-so. As I figure it out, you and Cardin are just about tied for second choice quarter, and all you’ve got to do is work like the dickens to beat him.”
“Sounds easy the way you tell it,” laughed Dick. “For that matter, all I’ve got to do is to work like the dickens to cop a scholarship!”
“Not at all. ‘Copping’ a scholarship, as you so vulgarly phrase it, requires a certain amount of grey matter in the garret. Winning a position on a football team is merely a matter of physical effort. No brains are necessary, my son. Therefore, I back you against the field to get the quarter-back job!”
“Thank you for nothing! At least, it requires more brains to play football well then it does to jump over a lot of silly hurdles!”
“There speaks ignorance,” retorted Stanley in a superior and pitying tone. “There are just three fairly decent hurdlers in this school, Dickie, and there are at least half a hundred fairly decent football players. Q.E.D.”
“Q.E. rot!” said Dick. “Anyone with skinny legs and a pair of spiked shoes can jump fences, you old swell-head! Besides, you don’t jump ’em half the time: you just knock ’em over and get tangled up in ’em. You track boys are a lot of nuts, anyway.”
“Before you say something that I’ll have to resent, Dick, I will change the subject for your sake.”
“Ha!” grunted Dick derisively. “That’s what everyone does when the argument goes against them. Say, what’s Sandy Halden doing with you fellows, Stan?”
“He was trying to be a half-miler last I knew, but I saw him over with the jumpers Friday. You and he made up yet?”