“Supposing my mother didn’t want me to play football; and I ain’t sure that she does; then what?”
“Oh, if she wrote to Horace he’d tell Brooksie and Brooksie would let you off,” answered Ned carelessly. “But I wouldn’t try that game,” he added meaningly, “because the fellows would think you’d put your mother up to it.”
“Seems, then, like I’ve just got to go ahead and be a martyr,” sighed Cal with a rueful shake of the head. “Look here, Ned, ain’t there any nice quiet position I could fill without having to bump my breath out and skin my shins all up? How about official scorer? Ain’t there something like that on the team? I cal’late I’d make a fine official scorer.”
“You’ll make a fine chump of yourself if you don’t stop talking,” said Ned with a laugh. “Do you play tennis? I’ll try you a set before supper if no one has the court.”
“I don’t know how. Besides, I couldn’t play after what I’ve been through back there. Why, I’m all lame and bruised up!”
Ned slapped him on the back.
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” he laughed, “and just love it, old man! You wait and see.”
“Love it nothing!” said Cal disgustedly. “I cal’late I’ll have to keep on, but I’m plumb sure I ain’t ever going to get to love it! Besides,” he continued as they sat down on the steps of West House, “I don’t see any sense in it! I thought football was play, but you fellows go at it like it was a matter of life or death.”
“Because we want to beat the Hall this year and get the shield away from them. You wait until later and you’ll be just as crazy as any of us. Things get pretty well heated up along towards November. If we win a game and Hall wins a game, why, you won’t be able to eat or sleep for two days before the play-off!”
“I won’t?” grunted Cal. “Huh; you just watch me!”