“Oh, twenty minutes, maybe. Is the game over?”
“No, judging by the sounds it isn’t. I’ve had enough of it, though. You’ve got a rotten team here this year, Cotton.”
“You bet we have!” assented the other eagerly. “That’s what I tell them. You’ll lick the stuffing out of them, Gibson. Are you on the team this year?”
“Me? Not exactly. I’m running Browne pretty hard, though. I may get on next week. Why aren’t you at the game?”
“I had to get a letter off on the three o’clock mail and the only way to do it was to take it to Greenburg. They only have two collections a day up here. It’s a rotten place. I wanted to see the game, too. That’s why I was hurrying back.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. They’ll get licked, anyway.”
Gibson, who had turned to go on, paused and observed Cotton attentively, speculatively. “You don’t seem to love your team, Cotton,” he suggested.
“Oh, they’re a great bunch of snobs,” replied Cotton bitterly. “If you haven’t got some sort of a drag you can’t get any show. It’s that way with everything here. Now, at Broadwood——”
“Your admiration for your dear old alma mater is touching,” sneered Gibson. “I suppose you tried for the team and got chucked, eh?”