“And you beat Asa out at the last,” exclaimed Peg rapturously. “I think he is just a horrid boy, though he is so big and strong.”
“Huh!” grunted Paul.
“Well, he is strong, you know, and he is great in football. We never would have beaten the Post but for him.”
“Oh, he can play football all right,” admitted Paul, with something of a grudge. “He’s a little slow, of course, but——”
“But then he is so awfully sure at back. He just tumbled those forwards about. Of course, he spends a lot of time practising.”
“Huh!” again grunted Paul.
“You can’t really be a good player without practice, can you?”
“Oh, I dunno,” said Paul, who had given little attention to football and who in consequence, though giving great promise because of his unusual speed, had not won any great glory on the field that day. “I don’t care much for football anyway.”
“Oh, Paul, I just love it. It’s a wonderful game.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Paul in contempt of a game in which he did not excel.