“Well, you’d better bathe that lump he gave you. It makes you look sort of lopsided. In fact, T. Tucker, that and your nose give you a positively villainous appearance! Frank’s got a hard-looking phiz to-night, too. Some one put a foot on it, he says. I told him he should be more careful and not leave his face lying around on the ground, but it didn’t seem to make a hit with him. Some folks are like that; can’t take advice for a cent. Say, Toby, old thing, it was some game. Listen! They won the toss and gave us the kick-off and Larry——”
Arnold had started, and Toby laid back on the window-seat and hugged his knees and said “Uh-huh” at intervals and listened as attentively as he could. But presently he got to thinking about his morrow’s letter home, and then about that scholarship after the mid-year, and was yanked back to the present by Arnold’s: “Isn’t that the very dickens, Toby?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, mighty tough! Who did you say did it?”
“I don’t know who did it! What do you mean, did it? It was the hurt he got in the Brown and Young’s game, I tell you. They thought it was all right, and they took the bandage off and everything, and then to-day he just gave it a twist or something!”
“Who did?”
“Why, Curran! Say, haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying?”
“Of course! But you talk so fast! As I understand it, Curran got hurt in last Saturday’s game and to-day he twisted his ankle——”
“It’s his knee, you idiot!”
“I meant knee; and had to quit playing. Who went in for him?”