“That means you don’t think I have, eh? I don’t see how you figure it. Take last Saturday, for instance—”
“I won’t do it,” laughed Bert. “If you say you’re playing up to top form that’s all there is to it, Charles.”
“Top form? Of course I’m not. No fellow reaches top form as early in the season as this. All I do say is that I’m doing just as well as Joe or any other end! And if Johnny thinks he can scare me by bluffing with Fitz Savell he’s wrong!”
“I don’t think he had anything like that in mind,” said Bert. “Fitz is too good a back to turn into an end. Tell you what, Chick. Cut out the pool for the rest of this week, get to bed on time and then see if you don’t feel a lot zippier!”
“Oh, piffle! How is playing a little pool going to affect my football? Don’t be an ass, Bert! Anyway, I’ve got a date with Les Devore for to-morrow night. Maybe I’ll quit for a while after that. Got to recoup my losses first, though! That guy has certainly been putting the harpoon into me lately!”
“Did you lose again last night?” asked Bert.
“Well, I didn’t exactly win. That fellow’s middle name is Lucky, Bert!”
“I guess it must be. Pretty good reason for letting him alone for a while, isn’t it? I mean a fellow can buck against a better game, Chick, but a run of luck is something else.”
“I guess that’s so,” agreed Chick thoughtfully. “When we started playing I could beat him two times out of three, but now, with everything breaking his way, I’m doing well if I get one game in four. But, heck, his luck can’t last! And when it stops, believe me, Bert, I’m going to lay him out stiff!”