“I guess Treat feels sort of superior for the same reason,” mused Clif.
“I don’t want to be harsh with Desmond, because he’s a First Team man; plays tackle, I think; and he might be useful. I say, you’re going out for practice to-morrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I haven’t heard anything about it, but I suppose they want candidates.”
“Of course they do. Did you bring togs?”
“Some old ones. I’ll get others if—it’s worth while.”
“Oh, you’ll get to play somewhere. Desmond says there’s a lot of rivalry amongst the class teams. And then there’s the scrub, too.”
“I’ll be lucky to make that, I guess. The fellows here look awfully big and husky, Kemble.”
“Yes, there’s a guy at my table who must be nineteen if he’s a day, and if he doesn’t top six feet I’ll eat my hat! Say, I wonder if we can’t fix it to get together in dining hall. Suppose they’ll let us? I’ll find out to-morrow. There’s a fruit store over there, and I think I smell peanuts!”
Going back, Kemble explained, while he cracked peanuts steadily, that he hadn’t been able to do very well at supper. “Mental exhaustion, you know. I was all in when Wyatt let me go. I ought to hate that guy, but I don’t seem to. He surely handed me some hot ones, but I guess I deserved them. What’s the good of knowing so blamed much about the queers who wrote books a couple of hundred years ago? Heck, it’s all I can do to half keep track of the guys who are doing it now! Wyatt asked me to tell him what I knew about Scott, and I said he was a mighty clever shortstop, but I didn’t know his batting average. But, gosh, he wasn’t talking baseball, he was talking about the fellow who wrote ‘Ivanhoe’!”
“I saw you from my window when you were making some of those brilliant sallies,” laughed Clif, “and you certainly did look unhappy, Kemble!”