“I have bruises and contusions and gashes all over me,” declared John Smith.
“I raked my right arm from the wrist to the elbow when I made that touchdown,” put in Leon Bentley, in a manner that called attention to the accomplishment.
“That was the greatest fluke of the game,” said Sterndale. “It was a streak of luck for the ball to roll right out of a scrimmage, in which you were carefully taking no part, just so you could pick it up with a clear field ahead of you and get over Highland’s line with it.”
“No fluke about it!” flared Leon. “No luck about it, either! I wasn’t going into the thing pell-mell, like the rest of you fellows, and I had my eyes open. That’s how it happened.”
“I noticed that you didn’t go into much of anything pell-mell,” yawned Thad Boland, sleepily. “You kept out of danger.”
“Bah! What have you got to say about it? You wouldn’t know a good play if you saw it, you big, lazy duffer!”
Thad pulled himself together somewhat and gave Leon a look.
“You better not get too gay with your mouth,” he drawled, “or I may take a notion to shake you. It would be lots of trouble, but I can’t swallow too much of your sass.”
Bentley did not care to arouse the lazy lad, for Boland had the strength of a young giant, though it was on very rare occasions that he saw fit to display it; so Leon lighted a fresh cigarette, contenting himself by saying:
“You’re all jealous of me, but I don’t care.”