“This is Mr. Burley, Allan,” Tommy was saying. “Brought him around ’cause I wanted you to know each other. Mr. Ware—Mr. Burley.”
Allan felt his hand enveloped in something large and warm and vise-like. He felt his fingers crushed together, thought he could hear the bones breaking—and still managed to smile painfully, but politely, the while. Then Burley had dropped his hand and was saying:
“I’ve wanted to know you ever since I saw you win that running race the other day. Came around here and left a card on you, but I guess you didn’t find it.”
Allan murmured his appreciation, but remained silent as to the “card.”
“I told Sweet here that you’d win that race. Offered to bet him anything he liked. He wouldn’t bet, though.” Peter Burley took the chair proffered by Hal and carefully lowered himself into it.
“They told me you carried me over to the tent,” said Allan. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”
“Welcome,” answered the other, heartily. “You didn’t weigh anything to mention.”
“Not as heavy as the freshman team, eh?” asked Tommy. Burley looked apologetically around the circle.
“I suppose every one’s heard of that fool thing?” he asked.
“Just about every one, I guess,” laughed Tommy.