“A football, sir,” replied Bus innocently.
“Ah, a football!” The instructor seemed gratified, as though he had suspected the object of being a football and was pleased to have the accuracy of his surmise confirmed. The class maintained a silence quite unusual, anxious to miss no whit of the fun. “You appear,” said Mr. Kincaid, “to be quite attached to it.”
Bus recognized the jest with a polite smile and fingered the cord as a further indication that he had “got” it. “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I am.”
“And”—Mr. Kincaid blinked, a method used to indicate guilelessness which fooled nobody—“and the football seems to be quite as attached to you. A truly beautiful friendship, Lovell.”
“Yes, sir.” Bus spoke more doubtfully.
“Yes, indeed,” went on the instructor musingly, “quite—ah—affecting. Just what was it, Lovell, that drew you together, besides a similarity of mental equipment?”
“Sir?” Repressed snickers from about him confirmed his suspicion that Mr. Kincaid had scored. The instructor was affably patient.
“I asked what first drew you to each other, Lovell, but never mind that. Instead, tell me whether you would be willing to part with your, shall I say alter ego? during a brief period which I propose to devote to the subject of Greek history.”
Bus was back on solid ground again. He had been waiting for that question. He shook his head, sadly yet emphatically.
“Sorry, sir, but that’s impossible,” said Bus firmly.