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Updated: May 10, 2025
You know I've always been interested in you, and Howard, and course we're interested in you as frat brothers, too. For old Joralemon and Plato, eh? Mr. Bjorken believes might as well tell him now, don't you think, Mr. Bjorken?" The coach gave a regally gracious nod. Hitching about on the wood-box, Carl felt the bottom drop out of his anxious stomach. "Well, Mr.
Bjorken, the coach, a former University of Minnesota star, told him that he might actually "make" the team in a year or two; that he had twice as much chance as Ray Cowles, who while Carl was thinking only of helping the scrub team to win was too engrossed in his own dignity as a high-school notable to get into the scrimmage.
Bjorken thinks you're practically certain to make the team next year, and maybe you may even get put in the Hamlin game for a few minutes this year, and get your P." "Honest?" "Yes, if you do something for old Plato, same 's you expect her to do something for you." Ray was quite sincere. "But not if you put the team discipline on the bum and disgrace Omega Chi.
Bjorken, the football coach, a large, amiable, rather religious young man, who believed in football, foreign missions, and the Democratic party. "Hello! Waiting for me or the Turk?" faltered Carl, gravely shaking hands all round. "Just dropped up to see you for a second," said Mr. Bjorken. "Sorry the Turk wasn't here."
Only thing is, now that he's practically fired, just tell me how it's going to help him or you or anybody else, now, to make everybody sore by roasting them because they can't agree with you. Boost; don't knock! Don't make everybody think you're a crank." "To be frank," added Mr. Bjorken, "you're just as likely to hurt Frazer as to help him by stirring up all this bad blood. Look here.
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