“Guard?” said Slim in surprise. “You mean Johnny stood for it?” Slim frowned. “Look here, General, let me give you a word of advice. You never get anywhere by changing jobs. You stick to being a tackle. The next time Johnny wants to shift you to some other position you put your foot down.”
“It wasn’t Johnny did it, Slim. They yelled for a guard and I ran on.”
“More fool you, son. You’ve got to specialize, or you’ll just sit on the bench forever and ever. The fellow that does a little of everything never does much of anything, as some one once very wisely remarked. How did you get along?”
“All right,” answered Leonard. “It was easier than tackle, Slim. I—I was more at home there, I suppose.”
“Huh,” grumbled Slim, “don’t get to looking for the easy jobs, General. You stay put, young feller. Why, only a couple of days ago Billy Wells was telling me what a wonderful tackle you’d make!”
“Wells was?” exclaimed Leonard. “Get out, Slim!”
“He was, honest to goodness! Why, Billy’s a—a great admirer of yours, General. He said more nice things about your playing than I ever heard him say about any fellow’s—not excepting his own! And now you go and let them make a goat of you. Too bad, son.”
“We-ell, I’ve half a notion that Johnny will let me play guard after this,” said Leonard. It was more a hope than a notion, though. Slim shook his head doubtfully.
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” he said. “You know, General, you aren’t quite built for a guard.”
After supper—Slim had been eating at training table for a long while now—Leonard was leaning over a Latin book in Number 12 when the door opened violently and things began to happen to him. First he was precipitated backward until his head touched the floor and his feet gyrated in air. Then he was sat on while rude hands tweaked his nose and the lately occupied chair entangled his feet. About that time Leonard began to resent the treatment and got a firm hold on Slim’s hair. But Slim wouldn’t have that.