Clem frowned slightly, placed Mart’s letter in his pocket and went out, closing the door behind him with a soft violence that to a close observer might have suggested disapproval if not indignation.
At about the same time Lowell Woodruff and Coach Cade were in consultation in the latter’s room regarding the accommodations for the football squad at the hotel in Lakeville. The team and substitutes were to have luncheon at the hotel and were to dress there before and after the game, and the price submitted by the hotel had brought the alarmed manager to Mr. Cade post-haste. “Of course,” Lowell was saying sarcastically, “the poor fish misunderstood my letter. He’s laboring under the delusion that I asked a price on a week’s accommodations for the whole thirty-five.”
Mr. Cade chuckled. “It does sound so, doesn’t it? But I suppose, as the letter says, prices have risen since two years back. I’d tell him what a small appetite you have and ask him to knock off about fifteen dollars.”
Lowell grinned, but became serious again in the instant. “Oh, well, if we had plenty of money in the old sock, it wouldn’t matter a whole lot, but the jolly old treasury is so low you can see the bottom of it. And, what with fares and getting out to the field, we’ll be closing the season no better than even.”
“The field,” said Mr. Cade, “is merely a pleasant walk from the hotel, and I don’t think it would hurt any of the crowd to do it afoot. You can save ten dollars or so right there.”
“That’s so. Some of the fellows will kick, though. We’ve always ridden out before, you know.”
“There’ll be no chance of a kick,” returned the coach. “I’ll tell them I want them to have the exercise. As a matter of hard fact, I think it will do them good.”
“All right, sir. Then I’ll close with the old robber. See you this afternoon.”
“By the way, I had a caller last night. That fellow Todd.”
“Todd! Don’t tell me he’s resigned again!”