Fortunately practice was light that afternoon, for even the most ambitious were unable to move out of a walk unless driven to it by the sharp voice of authority. Footballs had a way of coming down yards distant from their expected landing places and of slipping out of nerveless fingers, and cleated football shoes had apparently added several pounds of weight since yesterday. There was no scrimmage, and after a signal drill of half an hour the squad was released. Most of the First Team repaired to the second gridiron after getting back into mufti and watched the Scrub play its one outside game of the season. Southport Second was the opponent. Bert, his feet over the back of the seat in front of him, basked in the warmth and took much pleasure in watching his recent opponents in practice pant and perspire as they charged over the gridiron. For once at least he was content to sit in idleness and watch others gain the glory. Beyond him, widely spaced since there was plenty of room on the stand to-day and the idea of contact with another was obnoxious in such weather, sat other members of the First, lazily, even somnolently. Occasional words of approval aimed at the Second seldom reached the field. You might have all the will in the world to shout loudly, yet what resulted was merely a sleepy murmur. Into Bert’s paradise of contentment crept the serpent.
Well, he didn’t exactly creep, either; stumble would be a better word. And for a serpent he was undeniably rotund. Perhaps likening him to a boa constrictor after a hearty meal might go unchallenged, but the simile is inapt. And this particular serpent, even if he had had a hearty meal, was still eating as he flopped down to a seat beside Bert with a muttered: “Saluer, mon brave!”
“’Lo, Tommy,” responded Bert weakly. “That’s rotten French.”
“Sure. Have a peanut?” Tommy extended a sack and Bert managed to raise his hand and dip into it. “Some weather, eh? Feel like a lotus eater. Couldn’t find any lotuses—or is it lotii?—and had to get peanuts.”
“Penii,” corrected Bert.
Tommy grinned and tried to hit Watkins, of the Scrub, on the head with a shell. His effort fell short and he sighed. “Who’s ahead?” he inquired.
“Second. Two quarts.”
“Two quarts of what?”
“Perspiration. Scrubs just claimed a foul on Southport, but the referee wouldn’t allow it.”
“Go ahead,” said Tommy. “I’ll bite. What was the foul, Mister Johnsing?”