“Does, eh? Well, what have you been eating?”
“Eating? Nothing much. Well, I did have a cream-puff and a tart at the Widow’s, but I guess it isn’t that.”
“Oh, no, of course not, you silly prune! And you probably had a nut sundae with whipped cream and sliced peaches and a lot of other truck on it. Funny you don’t feel well, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t have any whipped cream,” said Kewpie indignantly. “It—it makes me bilious.”
“Well, come on over to the field. It’ll do you good.”
“I’ve been there. There’s nothing doing, Nid. The rink looks like tapioca pudding, and you can go in to your ankles anywhere you walk. Look at my shoes.”
“Yes, and look at that window-seat, you crazy galoot! Why don’t you wipe your dirty feet on your own cushions?”
“Oh, that’ll come off.” Kewpie flicked at the muddy stains with a nonchalant hand. “Say, listen. I’ve been trying to get hold of Nod all day. How long’s he going to practise?”
“Search me. They keep at it until five or a bit after, I think. What you got on your so-called mind, Kewpie?”
Kewpie hesitated and finally decided to take Ned into his confidence. “Well, it’s like this,” he began impressively. “A fellow needs more exercise than he gets along this time of year, Nid. Of course, it’s all right for you fellows who play basket-ball or hockey, but I couldn’t get into those things, and there isn’t much else to keep you fit. Now—”