“As I understand it,” responded Bert, “he’s going to give up coaching. He has a law practice somewhere, I think, and he wants to get busy with it. I suppose football coaching doesn’t lead to anything. How much salary does he draw, Chick?”
“Five, or so I’ve heard. I guess no one knows but he and the Faculty.”
“Five thousand! Great Peter! Why, that’s real money!”
“I’ll say so; for only three months in the year! Still, I guess it keeps a fellow from doing much of anything else. Take a law business. What good’s a lawyer if he isn’t around when you want him, eh? Of course, if a coach gets big money, like some of them, they don’t have to worry about any other business, I suppose. Some of the college coaches draw down ten thousand.”
“Gosh!” breathed Bert. “Guess I’ll be a football coach when I get through eddicatin’ myself.”
“You’ll have to learn to play first,” chuckled the other.
“I suppose so, but I don’t see how I’m to do that if Johnny doesn’t use me once in a while. I’m not so certain that I wouldn’t rather be on the Scrub, Chick. You do get to play there, even if it’s only against you dubs!”
“You’ll get your chance all right,” Chick answered. “Next year will be your big year, old scout. Just hold your horses and do the best you know how. You oughtn’t to kick, anyhow, Bert. You’ve made the Team and won your letter already, and that’s more than some fellows do before their senior year.”
“I know, but what’s it get me? I’ll trade that old letter any time for a half-hour in a real game! I’m getting sort of tired of adorning that unsympathetic bench and only getting into a scrimmage when every one else has been used up.”