“Tubb, Arn, still Tubb,” corrected Toby patiently. “Minus the sibilant consonant.”
“Tubb, then. It’s a crazy name, anyway. What I was going to say was that your friend Tubb played a very nice game of football this afternoon.”
“So glad to hear it.”
“Yes.” Arnold chuckled. “And some one almost spoiled his fatal beauty. They say it was Roy Frick.”
“How? What did he do to him?” asked Toby anxiously.
“How I don’t know. I didn’t observe it. What was done was enough, though. Friend Tubb’s nose is all over his face. I suppose that in time, after Andy has worked it back into shape and hitched it there with plenty of plaster, it will resume its normal appearance, but at the present writing it’s—well, it’s a sight and a strong argument against the brutality of football!”
“Do you mean that Frick got him during play?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like play, but maybe it was!”
“You know what I mean, you seven-ply idiot! Did they have a scrap, or what?”
“Oh, it was during the course of the gentlemanly encounter between friends that we staged down there this afternoon. Honest, Toby, it’s a wonder any one escaped without losing an ear or a jawbone or something, the way those coaches drove us to-day! They were positively blood-thirsty! That long-legged guy who’s coaching the guards and tackles——”