Clem shook his head. Lowell eyed him sharply and said in pained tones: “You’re a liar, Clem.”
Clem blustered a little but Lowell refused to retract. “Yes, you are,” he insisted. “But I suppose it’s something you can’t talk about, so I’ll forgive you.”
“Better let it go at that,” said Clem, grinning. “Anyway, I guess the team will survive without Jim.”
“Oh, sure. It would survive without any fellow on the squad; even Gus; but that doesn’t mean we want to lose a good, promising player, you old coot, and if you know of any way of waking Jim up out of his trance I wish to goodness you’d try it. I’ve exhausted all my methods. When I talk to him he just grins and nods and says, ‘Maybe you’re right, Woodruff’ or ‘There’s nothing the matter with me. You’ll see to-morrow.’ Well, I look and I don’t see. Perhaps the chap has a secret sorrow or—or something. Any of his folks ill that you know of?”
Clem shook his head.
“How does he stand with the Office? Hear of any trouble?”
“No, he’s all right there. He always is. He’s a shark.”
“Oh, well, I give it up. Just one more good man gone wrong, I suppose. But if you have any influence—”
“I haven’t,” interrupted Clem shortly. “Let’s drop it.”
So Lowell dropped it, but he wasn’t satisfied. He retired from the conversation firmly convinced that Clem knew a heap more than he would acknowledge and that if Clem was in any way responsible for Jim’s deficiency boiling oil was far too good for him.