A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?”
“Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.”
“Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!”
Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.”
Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!”
“Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely.
“So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed little fat rotter—” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed.
“Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”
“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He has got a swelled head and he is playing rotten.”