“Well,” said Myron, “now that I have got mad, what’s the big idea?”
“Why, now we can be pals,” answered Chas unhesitatingly. “How does that strike you?”
“Why—why, I don’t know!” Myron faltered. “It sounds like some sort of a silly joke to me, Cummins.”
“No joke at all.” Chas unclasped his hands and leaned back, his big, freckled face wreathed in smiles. “No hurry, though. Think it over. Anyway, there’s something more important just now. I’ve watched you on the field, Foster, ever since they dumped you on me that day. I’ve seen you play and I can tell you what I think of you, if you like.”
It’s human to like flattery in moderation, and so Myron said “Go ahead,” and prepared to look modest.
“I think you’re rotten,” said Chas.
“Wh-what?” gasped Myron.
“Rotten, with a large capital R, Foster.”
“Thanks!”