“Where from?” grunted George. “Maybe you’d like the job, Dick?”
“Why, I don’t know,” replied the other thoughtfully. “Perhaps—perhaps I should, George. I might think it over.”
Cotner laughed, and then, seeing Dick’s sober countenance, said hurriedly: “Well, I dare say you could do it, by Jove! The fellows tell me you managed that baseball club to the King’s taste, Dick. Still, I don’t suppose you know much football.”
“No more football than baseball, George, and I’ve never played either.”
“No, of course not.” George shot a puzzled glance at him. “Well, you knew enough baseball, it seems. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be mighty willing to see you try it, Dick!”
“Thanks. Maybe if no one else turns up I’ll apply for the position.” Dick ended smilingly and George Cotner wondered how seriously the other meant what he had said.
“After all,” he said doubtfully, and apparently with a desire to be pleasant, “a coach doesn’t need to have been any great shucks himself as a player. It’s—it’s brains and—leadership that do the business, I guess.”
“They help, I fancy,” replied Dick, gravely. “I think Lanny is yelling for you, George.”