"Nothing."
"Nothing be blowed, my boy. Murdoch's limping to beat the band."
"Oh!" grinned South. "That was afterward; he got mixed up with my stick, and, I fear, hurt his shins."
"Well," said Neil, when the laughter was over, "football seems deadly enough, but I begin to think it's a parlor game for rainy evenings alongside of lacrosse."
"There won't be many fellows left for the Robinson game," said Sydney, "if they keep on getting hurt."
"That's so," Livingston concurred. "Fletcher, White, Jewell, Brown, Stowell--who else?"
"Well, I'm not feeling well myself," said Foster.
"We were referring to players, Teddy, my love," replied South sweetly.
"Insulted!" cried Foster, leaping wildly to his feet. "It serves me right for associating with a lot of freshmen. Good-night, Fletcher, my wounded gladiator. Get well and come back to us; all will be forgiven."
"I'd like the chance of forgiving the fellow that jumped on my shoulder," said Neil. "I'd send him to join Murdoch."