“Then there’s Lane’s knee,” said Syddington, without looking up.
“The knee’s all right,” said Beck, decisively. “Physically Lane’s in as good shape as he was before the injury.”
“Ye-es, but Servis has never been hurt,” answered Syddington. “Seems to me that makes him less liable to injury now.”
His face was pale and there were little stubborn creases about the mouth. The trainer opened his lips as if to reply, but closed them again. Gardiner examined his pen and waited. Restraint was in the air.
“I think we’d better start with Servis,” said Syddington, after a moment. He heaved a sigh of relief and shot a glance at Beck.
The latter’s face wore an expression of disappointment, which disappeared under the lad’s scrutiny, but which, nevertheless, caused Syddington to transfer his gaze to the table and sent a flush to his cheeks.
Gardiner wrote for a moment. “That leaves only full-back, and Hale’s our man there. And that finishes the line-up. I’ll read it over.”
Then he and Beck discussed once more the plan of the battle.
Bob Syddington heard nothing. He was fighting a battle of his own, and his thoughts were far from pleasant. To do a dishonorable act knowingly, deliberately, is in itself disagreeable enough to a boy who has all his life hated mean actions. But to know that two persons in whose eyes one particularly wants to appear clean and honorable are aware of the act adds greater bitterness.