Time and again the Lumberport team came near to making a goal; but at the end the tally stood with the visitors eight points ahead of their opponents, after a fifteen-minute session that abounded in good plays and vigorous action.
The crowd from Central High certainly were in fine fettle when they marched down to the dock and went aboard their steamer. There was a fine spread in the cabin and Chet Belding made a speech. That was arranged for beforehand and most of Chet’s speech dealt with “Why Prettyman Sweet Eats So Much.” Pretty was used to being joked, and didn’t mind it much as long as Chet was talking and he could continue to graze at his pleasure upon the good things on the table.
“Only, I say!” he exclaimed, when Chet’s speech was concluded, “I don’t see why I am always selected to point a mowal and adorn a tale. Weally, I don’t eat so much more than anybody else—according to my height.”
“That’s right, Purt!” cried Lance. “There’s a lot of you—lengthwise!”
“And just think what a thin shell you’ve got,” cackled Billy Long. “That’s why it takes so much to fill you up, old boy.”
“Don’t carp and criticise, Billy-boy,” said his sister, Alice. “I notice that a good deal goes onto your plate, too—and you haven’t arrived at Purt’s age yet.”
“Don’t talk to Billy about ages,” giggled Bobby. “He can’t remember anybody’s age. I bet he couldn’t tell how old Methuselah was.”
“Give it up! Didn’t know the gentleman. What team did he play on?” asked Billy, with his mouth full.
“Methuselah was 969 years old,” declared Purt, seriously.
“Pshaw, Purt! was that it?” demanded Billy.