“Oh, you’ll soon know him,” added Sid. “And so you’re from California, eh?”
“Yes, but I think I’m going to like it here,” was the response. “They tell me there was a Freshman football game to-day. Did our boys win?” he asked, eagerly. “You see, I’m making myself right at home, calling ’em our boys.”
“That’s the way to do,” declared Tom, who, somehow, felt a sudden liking for the stranger. “Are you interested in football?”
“I played—some—at Stanford,” was the modest reply, “but I suppose it’s too late to get on the team here. You’re all made up, I hear.”
“Made and unmade,” murmured Tom, in a low voice. “Jove!” he added under his breath, as he took in the proportions of the big Californian, “what a guard or tackle he’d make!”
[CHAPTER XI]
A NEW COMPLICATION
“Oh, hang it all!” burst out Phil Clinton, as he tossed aside his trigonometry.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Tom, looking up from his Latin prose.