“Yes, he is, too! Chick’s the—the slap-bang, hit-or-miss sort that—”
“Mostly miss to-day,” interpolated Tommy.
“—that fellows take to. He may be wrong, but he makes you think he’s right. And he has—well, dash, you know; and a jolly way of banging into everything; sort of a ‘Come on, gang, let’s go!’ fashion that wins the crowd. What I think about Chick is that if he had made the captaincy he’d have been a poor leader, Tommy, but every one would have forgiven him and, if we’d lost to Kenly, would have said: ‘Well, it wasn’t Chick Burton’s fault! It was just rotten luck!’”
“He’s sure got a pal in you,” said Tommy. “I didn’t know you two were so amical.”
“Your French is rotten, as usual. We aren’t very friendly, either, for that matter. I mean, I don’t know him very well. Say, that’s a funny thing about Chick Burton. He gets on finely with every one, but you never see him chummy with a soul. Ever notice that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What about Hollins? He and Chick look to be pretty thick.”
“Well, they room together, you know, and I heard they were pals before they came here. But outside of Bert Hollins he doesn’t take up with any fellow, so far as I see.”
Tommy chuckled reminiscently. “You ought to have seen the pained look on Bert’s face this afternoon when I razzed Chick once for missing a throw! Say, that poor nut thinks Chick invented football, I guess.”
Pill, having finally set about the task of removing his damp clothing, chuckled as he kicked off a shoe. “I’ll bet! Bert thinks Chick is just about all right, I guess. Talk about Damon and Pythias!”
“Well, I fancy it’s a bit one-sided,” replied Tommy pessimistically. “Friendships generally are.”