“All right,” he said, listlessly.
“All right, what?” was snapped back at him.
For a moment Joe did not answer.
“Come on, Fresh.!” cried the other, taking a step toward him. “Quick—all right—what?”
“Sir!” ripped out Joe, as he turned away.
A moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. Joe started as he beheld the countenance of Ford Weston—the youth who had laughed at his pitching.
“That’s right,” came in more mollified tones from the Sophomore. “Don’t forget your manners at Yale, Fresh.! Or you may be taught ’em in a way you won’t like,” and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus.