Steve Edwards was not at home, but Amy Byrd was enthroned on the window-seat when they entered in response to Tom's invitation, and Amy had evidently been holding forth very seriously on some subject.
"Don't mind us," said Tim. "Go ahead, Amy, and get it off your chest."
"Hello," said Amy. "Hello, Don, old man. Haven't seen you for an age. Make yourselves at home. Never mind Tom, he's only the host. How did you like the practice today, Tim?"
"I didn't see it, but I heard enough about it. It must have been fierce!"
"It was perfectly punk," growled Tom. "I should think Robey would want to throw up his hands and quit!"
"Did you see it, Don?" asked Amy.
"No, I didn't go over. What was the trouble?"
"Well, I'm no expert," replied Amy, taking his knees into his arms and rocking gently back and forth on the seat, "but I'd say in my ignorant way that someone had unkindly put sleeping-potions in the milk at training-table! The only fellow who seemed to have his eyes more than half open was McPhee. Mac showed signs of life at long intervals. The rest sort of stumbled around in their sleep. I think Peters actually snored."
"Oh, we're going to get a fine old drubbing next Saturday," said Tom pessimistically. "And what a fine exhibition for that chap Proctor! I'll bet Robey could have kicked the whole team all the way back to the gym. He looked as though it would have done him a world of good to have a try at it!"
"Oh, well, these things happen," said Tim cheerfully. "It's only a slump. We'll get over it."