“Not above the collar,” grunted Tenney.
“For the love of Mike, fellows,” begged Rus, “shut up on football. It’s enough to play it every day without having to talk it all evening.”
“What else do you expect football men to talk about?” asked Slim, rolling the empty ginger-ale bottle under Stick’s bed. “You ought to know, Rus, that the football player’s intellect isn’t capable of dealing with any other subject.”
“Dry up, Slim,” said Billy Wells, “and move over, you poor insect. I want to talk to General Grant.”
There being no room to move over without sitting in Jim Newton’s lap, Slim crossed the room and took the arm of the Morris chair, just vacated by Billy. Billy squeezed onto the bed, securing another inch or two by digging Jim violently with an elbow. Jim grunted and said: “Little beast!” Billy turned a shrewd, smiling countenance on Leonard.
“Well, how’s it going?” he asked.
“All right, thanks,” answered Leonard vaguely. Just what “it” was he didn’t know. Probably, however, life in general. But Billy’s next words corrected the assumption.
“How long have you been playing the tackle position?” he asked.
“About three weeks,” replied Leonard. “That explains it, doesn’t it?” He added an apologetic smile.
“Explains what? Oh, I’m not ragging you, Grant. Why, say, you and I had some swell times! If you’ve been at it only three weeks, I’ll say you’re pretty good. But where’d you been playing?”