“After all,” said Nick, “’is ’Ighness is the only one should kick. He’s dished on football for two weeks, anyway, and that queers him utterly for this year. If anyone has a right to grouch it’s Hugh, and he’s the most cheerful of the lot.”
“Do you really think it lets me out for the year?” asked Hugh sadly. “I was hoping that maybe, if it was only two weeks, they’d let me back on the—the—grinds.”
“The what?” demanded Nick. “Oh, the scrubs! Grinds isn’t bad, though! That’s what they do, all right.”
“Hope on, hope ever,” said Guy. “Put it up to Ted some time. Maybe he will fix it for you. Who’s going to captain the second this year, Pop?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it will be Ben Myatt.”
“Honest? Poor old Bennie! He’s been trying for the first team for three years now. I hoped he would make it this time.”
“Perhaps he will, but I doubt it. Ben just doesn’t reach to the first. He’s a clever player, too.”
“Better than Tom Hanrihan, in my estimation,” said Nick. “I’d like to see Ben make it this time.”
“So would I,” agreed Pop, “but he isn’t the player Tom is. Tom’s got the zip, you know. Ben’s too good-natured, I guess.”
“There’s something in that,” mused Guy. “Remember Powell, who pitched for us year before last, Pop? He was a nifty twirler, all right, and had a fast one that would fool you two times out of three, but you simply couldn’t rile him, and when things got away from us Powell was no earthly use in the box. When you’re a run or two behind along in the eighth or ninth you want just nine fellows in the field who are mad clear through!”