"I'm writing this story," said Peter. "Hand it in."
"All right."
Pat carried it to the operator in the next room. Peter began to write again but all the zest and excitement of it was gone. He had to fumble around and look at his notes. Nothing went right. It was almost three quarters of an hour before he got to the last page. Pat sat across the table from him saying nothing.
"All done," said Peter at last. "Where shall we go?"
"I don't care."
"Maybe there's a party for the team that you've got to go to."
"I don't have to go. I'm not going."
"What's the matter with you, Pat. You'd think Yale had licked us. Are you sore because you didn't get into the game?"
"No, I knew I wouldn't get in. Pretty near the whole squad would have to be struck by lightning before I got in. That wasn't it. I found out this afternoon that Copeland was right. The thing doesn't matter. It's silly to get so worked up about it."
"What made you think that?"