“Just came over to see you fellows at your play.”
“Play, eh? Son, this isn’t play, this is har-r-rd work. I’ve done four sprints and I’ve got a kink in my calf—” he rubbed his left leg ruefully—“and now Billy says we’ve got to do time-trials. How did football go?”
“Rotten, I guess. The Second scored nine on us.”
“What? For the love of Pete! What did you do?”
“Oh, we got eleven, finally. But everyone was dopey today and Driscoll was peevish and nobody loved us. Who’s the elongated chap with the pipe-stem legs, Stan?”
“Arends. He’s a corking hurdler, though the low’s his best game. The little chap, Mason, is good, too. Doesn’t look like a hurdler, does he? Well, here’s where I suffer. Wait around and I’ll go back with you.”
“Maybe,” answered Dick, doubtfully.
“Maybe! How do you get that way? You talk like an expiring clam! I’ll be back here in a minute, you chump.”
“All right. Go to it, Stan. Beat ’em, son!”