“Picking daisies,” replied Tom impatiently. “Spill it!”
“Otis is sick, and can’t come back the rest of the season! He’s got the ‘flu’! They just got word from him.”
“Roll your hoop!” said Tom incredulously. “Who says so?”
“Gee, it’s true! Ask any one. Faculty’s called a meeting of the Athletic Committee, too. This evening. In ‘Pinky’s’ room. Ask any one.”
“If ‘G. G.’s’ so blamed sick how could he write and tell about it?” demanded Tom witheringly. “Of course, I’m not saying he hasn’t got the ‘flu’; lots of folks have it; but it’s crazy to say he isn’t coming back.”
“Maybe he didn’t write himself,” said Bumstead. “Maybe it was the doctor or some one. Anyway—”
But Tom had caught sight of Joe Whitemill, of the First Team, and he plowed his way through to him.
“What’s it all about, Whitemill?” he asked anxiously. “Is ‘G. G.’ really out of it?”
“Eh? Oh, hello, Kemble. Yes, that’s the way we get it. He’s down with influenza, and the doctor says he won’t be able to do any more coaching this season. I don’t know where the story came from, though. Every one has it, but no one knows where it started. For my part—”