"I have been up in Scotland climbing hills, and getting myself in good condition for football," Skinner replied shortly.
"Ah, football? Yes, I suppose we shall be playing football this term."
There was another laugh, excited principally by the angry growl with which Skinner greeted this indifference to what was to him the principal feature of the year.
"I shouldn't mind football," Easton went on, after looking round as if unable to understand what the others were laughing at, "if it wasn't for the dirt. Of course it is annoying to be kicked in the shins and to be squeezed horribly in the greases, but it is the dirt I object to most. If one could but get one's flannels and jerseys properly washed every time it would not matter so much, but it is disgusting to have to put on things that look as if they had been rolled in mud."
"I wonder you play at all, Easton," Skinner said angrily.
"Well, I wonder myself sometimes," Easton said placidly. "I suppose it is a relic of our original savage nature, when men did not mind dirt, and lived by hunting and fighting and that sort of thing."
"And had never learned the nuisance of stiff shirts and collars, and never heard of such a thing as a tailor, and did not part their hair in the middle, Easton, and had never used soap," Skinner broke in.
"No; it must have been beastly," Easton said gravely. "I am very glad that I did not live in those days."
"Ah, you would have suffered horribly if you had, wouldn't you?"
"Well, I don't know, Skinner; I suppose I should have done as other people did. If one does not know the comfort of a wash and a clean shirt, one would not miss it, you see. I have sometimes thought—"