"How is Eunice?" asked Jock politely, as he and Brad sat down.
"Oh, she's fine. Tickled to death to see college reopening, of course—it's devilishly stupid for her here in the summer, She wanted to take a cottage at the shore during July and August, but I couldn't quite made the grade."
There was a silence. Brad was frowning at nothing, and Jock was feeling sorry for Brad. He could imagine precisely the scenes that must have taken place, Eunice pleading, nagging, threatening, Brad gently obdurate. . . . Brad had graduated in 1917, fought in France, and come back to the University as assistant coach, a position accorded him in recognition of his sensational athletic prowess while a student. "It's a great job," he had told Jock once, "and I'd be happy in it if it wasn't for Eunice. She wants more money. She can't bear not to have the things more money would buy, and she knows I'll never make much more—this way. She's right, too, of course," he had amended hastily. "I'll have to get more for her, some way." Everything Eunice thought and did was right in Brad's eyes; love had given him an incurable astigmatism.
The pause became over-long, and to end it Jock said, "How's the football team look?"
"Good!" replied Brad, brightening instantly. "Shaping up better than we expected. Got a corking backfield—same as last year, you know, except for Weatherby—if we just had some more beef in the line, now, we'd be sitting pretty. I swear, Jock, it seems to me college boys get smaller every year! I was down at the registrar's office this morning while the freshmen were filing in, and I give you my word, of all the sawed-off runts"
