“Why not do away with the quarter entirely?” asked Loring, laughing. “Let the coach run the team from the side-line by radio!”
“Fine,” applauded Clif. “Then, if he lost his game, he could blame it on static!”
“Well, we’ve got a quarter who knows both branches of his trade pretty well,” said Clif. “Sim’s a mighty fine player, I think.”
“That’s Jackson?” asked Loring. “He’s the dark-haired chap, isn’t he? Well, have you ever noticed how seldom he takes the ball himself?”
Tom blinked. “I guess we haven’t got many plays for quarterback,” he answered. Then he caught an amused twinkle in Loring’s eyes. “Oh, come on and let’s play,” he laughed.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CONSULTING COACH
Clif’s father was to have visited him Sunday, but the morning brought a telegram stating that a sudden journey to Boston necessitated a postponement of the Freeburg trip to the following Sunday. Clif’s disappointment was not lasting. In the afternoon he and Tom and Loring went for a walk. That is, he and Tom walked and took turns pushing Loring’s chair, long since mended by the local carpenter. Wattles was left behind, delighted by the prospect of two hours of browsing in the school library but uneasy at intrusting his charge to the two boys.
The day was fair and, for the latter part of October in that region, quite warm. Along Oak Street many of the residents were on their porches, and the sight of the boy in the wheel chair created much interest and curiosity. Clif was conscious of the craning necks and low-voiced comments, but Loring seemed not to be aware of them. Perhaps, Clif thought, you got used to that sort of thing after a while. They went through the village and then westward and came to a halt at last beside the little river where the end of the old covered bridge offered a sheltered, sunny nook. Clif and Tom climbed to the top of a fence. Loring, supplied with a willow wand at his request, trimmed it with his knife and whittled contentedly while conversation roamed from one subject to another. They were on a little-traveled road and the only vehicle to rattle across the bridge during their sojourn was an old buggy drawn by a fat gray horse and occupied by a roly-poly old man who gave them a cheerful “Afternoon, boys,” and painstakingly forbore to stare at Loring. Loring’s gaze followed the retreating figure and he smiled.
“He wanted so much to take a good look, too,” said Loring. “Nice old codger. I almost wanted to tell him I didn’t mind.”