"Well, I think I'd like to try it. He--he's not a bad sort of a chap. Only maybe he wouldn't care to--er--"
"Oh, yes, he would," answered Paul. "You'll see, Tom."
"Well, maybe so. Going? Good luck to you. I'll see you on the field."
Paul hurried around the long curve of Elm Street toward Pearson's boarding-house, where the players were already gathering for luncheon. He found Neil on the steps and dragged him off and down to the gate.
"It's all right," he said. "I found him and asked him, and I wish I hadn't. He was awfully cut up about it; seemed hurt to think I could suspect such a thing. Though, really, I didn't quite suspect, you know."
"I'm sorry we hurt his feelings," said Neil. "It was a bit mean of me to suggest it."
"He's going to stay for a while," went on Paul. "And--and--Look here, chum, don't you think that if--er--you tried you could get to like him better? From something he said to-day I found out that he thinks you're a good sort and he'd like to get on with you. Maybe if we kind of looked after him we could--oh, I don't know! But you see what I mean?"
"Yes, I see what you mean," replied Neil thoughtfully. "And maybe we'd get on better if we tried again. Anyhow, Paul, you ask him down to the room some night and--and we'll see."
"Thanks," said Paul gratefully. "And now let's get busy with the funeral baked beans--I mean meats. Gee, I've got about as much appetite as a fly! I--I wish the game was over with!"
"So do I," answered Neil, as with a sigh he listlessly followed his chum into the house.