“Is it you?” asked Paddy grimly.
“Yes.”
“Are you a spalpeen?”
“Yes, oh yes. Ouch!”
“All right.” Paddy deposited Dave on the floor and arranged himself comfortably in the window.
“Dave says you’re annoyed, Paddy. Who’s been ill-treating the poor little lad?” asked Don, when the laughter had subsided and Dave had retreated to the other window seat.
“Don, it’s kilt I am intoirely,” answered Paddy. “For thirty mortal minutes Gardiner had me snapping back the ball to that butter-fingered Bowles. If he doesn’t put another quarter-back in soon I shall hand in me resignation. And to make things worse Gardiner stayed up all last night and thought out a most wonderful new trick play, and to-day he tried to put us through it. And, oh dear! I wish you could have seen the backs all tearing around like pigs with a dog after them, bumping into each other, getting in each other’s way and all striking the line at different places and asking, please wouldn’t we let them through! Oh dear! oh dear! And that chap Moore, who plays center on the second, got me around the neck twice and tried to pull my head off. If he doesn’t quit that trick I’ll be forced to forget my elegant manners and slug him.”
“And he’ll wipe the turf up with you, and I hope he does,” said Dave, rubbing his nose ruefully.
“And the St. Eustace game only two weeks off,” continued Paddy, heedless of the interruption. “We’re in an awful state, fellows. I wish we had Remsen back to coach us. Gardiner’s all right in his way, but he doesn’t begin to know the football that Stephen Remsen does. We’re goners this year for sure.”
“Oh, cheer up,” answered Don. “You can do lots in two weeks. Look at the material we’ve got.”