“You mean you do generally eat,” laughed Bert. “Maybe I can dig up something to keep life in your poor thin body. Come on.”
“I haven’t been in here for a long time,” said Tommy as he selected the easiest chair and relaxed with a sigh. “You and Chick still hit it off? He’d get on my nerves mighty quick, I guess. He’s what I call a hard frost.”
“Chick’s a fine chap when you know him,” said Bert. “He and I have been friends a long time.”
“Meaning I’m to quit throwing off on him, eh? Oh, all right. He’s not bad, even if he is trying to see how rotten he can play.”
“Rot,” replied Bert warmly. “Chick’s doing as well as any fellow on the team, Tommy, and you know it.”
“You’re a liar,” responded Tommy sweetly, “and you know it! Ever since he got thrown down at the election last winter he’s been as sore as a boil, and ever since he started to play football last month he’s been just passing the time. I’m not the only one who knows it, either, if you don’t—or pretend you don’t. Johnny’s got his number, believe me! Some fine day Chick’s going to wake up and find himself on the outside looking in!”
“Nonsense,” muttered Bert. But he was uneasily conscious that there might be some truth in Tommy’s prediction. Chick had been rather poor this fall, and it was scarcely possible that Coach Cade hadn’t noted the fact. Bert tossed a half-emptied box of drug-store candy into Tommy’s lap and, because the other had jarred him, said irritably: “Go ahead and kill yourself, you silly pig!”
Tommy removed the lid and peered dubiously into the box. “Not much chance of killing myself with what’s here,” he stated derisively. “Have some?”
“No, thanks.” Bert sat down at the study table and thoughtfully rolled a pencil between his palms. “Rather a thankless job, yours, Tommy. I mean fellows don’t take kindly to your criticism, eh?”