"Wonderful," I said faintly, and I batted perplexedly at the exquisite, symmetrical arm.
"Oh, that's nothing," she said indifferently, jerking down her sleeve. "I'm a little undertrained now; been putting in all my time on leg work. That's what counts in foot-ball.
"Foot-ball!" I questioned, astonished. "Why, I didn't know—"
"That I was on the team? Surest thing you know; that's why I've got all this mop of hair—comes below my collar—see?"
Her collar, indeed! It was easy to see that, if unbound, it would reach considerably below her waist. But foot-ball! Why, she must mean basket-ball, of course. I opened my mouth to remind her, when she proceeded:
"But I was going to tell you about this prize fight. Well, this fight was just a little one, you know. Purse of eighteen dollars; and we had to chip in afterward with an extra three to get Mug Kelly—that's the Charlestown Pet, you know—to stand the gaff for a second round. Why, he was all in on the count at the end of the first round—what do you think of that?"
"But I say, you know—" I began, but she lifted her hand.
"I know—I know what you're going to say, Dicky; you think we were a bunch of easy marks, that's what you think. But how could we tell what my room-mate was going to do to the Pet—we couldn't, you know."
"Your room-mate!" I exclaimed aghast. "A—an other young lady—in a pugilistic encounter? Oh, I say!"
She chuckled. "G'long; stop your kidding!" And she kicked playfully at me. Then she assumed a mincing air—finger on chin, lips pursed, and eyes rolling upward, you know.