“I give you good evening, Mr. Crail. A tolerably sharp evening, sir.”
“Hello, Collins,” responded Monty, pausing. “Yes, it is a bit chilly. How’s the old scrap pile down there?”
It was one of Collins’ pleasant fictions that the heating plants in the two dormitories were so old and decrepit that they no longer could perform what was expected of them, a fiction which proved very convenient when he sought an excuse for not providing enough heat.
“Well, sir, she’s just holding together. I got her going pretty good, and I reckon she’ll carry along till morning if the fire don’t fall down through the grate or something. You been playing football, Mr. Crail?”
“I’ve been trying to, Collins, but they tell me I’m not fast enough for them.”
“Land sakes, sir, don’t you pay no attention to what they tells you. Why, you’re one of the best players they’ve got this year. Yes, sir, I hear that everywhere I go.”
“Collins, you’re a very polite liar, aren’t you?” laughed Monty.
“Me, sir?” Collins looked horribly hurt. “That’s no lie, Mr. Crail, sir. Everybody’s talking about your playing, sir.”
“All right. Did you—er—want to see me about any little matter, Collins?”