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“Seems mighty nice to be back again,” Arnold observed after one such meeting. “Bet you we’re going to have a dandy time this year, T. Tucker.”

“Maybe you will,” answered the other dubiously, “but I don’t expect to unless they drop Latin from the curriclumum—curric—well, whatever you call it.”

“Call it the course, old thing,” laughed Arnold. “It’s easier on the tongue. But I thought you finished strong with Latin last year.”

“I did pretty well in spring term, but it looks tougher this fall. And I’ve got Collins this year, and every one says he’s a heap stricter than Townsend.”

“Well, he is, I suppose, but he’s a mighty good teacher. You get ahead faster with Collins, I think. Anyway, it won’t look so bad when you’ve got into it, Toby. Besides, I dare say I can help you a bit now and then.”

“You,” jeered Toby with a very, very hollow laugh. “You’ll be so full of football for the next two months you won’t know I’m alive! A nice outlook for me, I don’t think! When I’m not bathing you with arsenic—or is it arnica?—or strapping your broken fragments together I’ll have to listen to you yapping about how it was you missed a tackle, or got your signals mixed. Arn, as a companion you’ll be just about as much use as a—a——”