“But Dozier’s a crackajack, Chick! Why, last year—”
“All right, but what happened in the Kenly game? They ripped him to pieces in just about twenty minutes, didn’t they?”
“I heard he was sick. Some one said he was up in Patten’s room for an hour that morning and Lum and two or three others were dosing him with everything from hair oil to Seidlitz powders! I remember myself that he looked like the dickens just before lunch.”
“Funk, probably. I’ve seen fellows worse than he was before a big game. They get over it by the time to start. Gosh, I’ve been sort of teetery myself!”
“You! Bet it was something you’d eaten then,” jeered Bert. “You’ve got about as much—as much whatever it is as a goat!”
“Is that so? I’ll have you understand that I’m a man of very delicate—er—susceptibilities. Highly strung, nervous, you know. Temperamental! That’s the old word I wanted.”
“Put your coat on and let’s get over to supper,” said Bert. “You’re saying things that don’t mean anything!”