“Better than I can talk it,” laughed Leon.
Monty sighed enviously. “That must be great,” he said. “The only language I know is English, and Mr. Rumford is beginning to make me think I don’t know that! And I can talk enough Spanish to navigate a burro, and can tell German when I see it printed. There comes the football mob. Want to watch them for awhile?”
Leon good naturedly consented, and they found seats on the stand, and leaned luxuriously back in the sunlight, and waited to be amused. And there Pete Gowen spied Monty, and so came hustling across to him.
“Hello, Crail, how are you getting on?” he asked. “Why haven’t you been around to see me?”
“Thought maybe you had troubles enough of your own. Shake hands with Desmarais. Leon, this is Mr. Gowen. He’s the man they’re building the team around this year.”
Pete laughed as he acknowledged the introduction, and then asked soberly: “Why aren’t you out, Crail?”
“I am out. This is me.” Monty tapped his chest.
“Out for practice, I mean. Didn’t you tell me you played, and were going to try for a place?”
“Oh, that. Why, yes, but I haven’t any togs. My trunk hasn’t caught up to me, Gowen. I’ll be on hand tomorrow, though.”