“Where do you get that talk?” demanded Martin, punctuating the question with three mighty sneezes. “You’d better keep away from McNatt, son. You’re catching it! Brand, just so long as my conscience is at rest I care naught for what faculty may say or do. And I’ve got what is probably the most restful conscience in captivity!”
“Well, I guess Hillsport’s too good a sport to make a howl,” replied Willard. “Cal’s clothes are simply covered with paint, Bob says. And he doesn’t dare wear them for fear faculty might notice and get a line on what happened. He’s going to smuggle them over to the tailor’s and have ’em cleaned.”
“Well, he would have a hand in it,” said Martin complacently. “You didn’t see me begging to be allowed to desecrate the walls of the dear old town, did you? I knew better. Paint always spatters, especially when you try to put it on bricks. I could have told Cal that, but he’s so blamed knowing that he wouldn’t have paid any attention to me.” Martin sneezed again and shook his head. “It was coming over in that old trolley that gave me this cold. I guess I got worse than a spoiled suit out of the adventure. If I don’t manage to break this up tonight I’ll be out of football for days! I know these colds of mine.”
“I thought you said it was hay-fever,” remarked Willard innocently.
Martin growled. “It’s more than a month too late for hay-fever, I guess.” He seized his handkerchief, opened his mouth and twitched his nose. Nothing happened, however, and he relapsed again, with a dismal shake of his head. “It’s getting worse all the time,” he muttered. “Is there a window open anywhere?”
“No, but I’ll open one,” answered Willard obligingly.
“Don’t be a silly ass,” requested the other. “If you had this grippe you wouldn’t be so plaguey comic!”
“It’s growing fast,” laughed Willard. “An hour ago it was just hay-fever. Then it was a cold. Now it’s grippe. Better see a doctor, Mart, before pneumonia sets in!”
“Oh, shut up! What time is it?”