“That’s just Tom’s joke, sir. Alf is captain and quarter. And he’s a dandy, too!”
“Oh, I see.” Mr. Pennimore joined the laughter. “I thought I wasn’t mistaken about it. And you play end, don’t you, Dan? And Tom, here, is——”
“Water carrier,” interrupted Alf pleasantly. “Quite correct, sir. And one of the best we’ve ever had—when he doesn’t go to sleep and fall into the pail.”
“Tom’s right half back, sir,” said Gerald, “and you mustn’t mind what they say about the team. It’s a mighty good team, and it’s going to lick spots out of Broadwood in just about two weeks.”
“I’m glad to hear it, son. Has the team had a good season so far, Alf?”
“Only fair, sir. We won from Greenburg, Forrest Hill and St. John’s, tied Carrel’s and lost to Porter and Brewer. The Brewer game ought to have been ours, though. The referee gave them a touchdown they didn’t make. The ball was dead about twenty yards from our goal and a Brewer half picked it up and ran over with it.”
“But didn’t you—ah—protest?”
“Until I was black in the face,” replied Alf disgustedly. “But it didn’t do any good. The referee was a man they’d picked up somewhere and he was punk. They say he’s a baseball umpire. Maybe he is; he certainly isn’t a football referee.”
“And who do you play Saturday?” asked Mr. Pennimore.
“Nordham, sir. It’s our last game before we tackle Broadwood.”