“Merrill, what do you mean when you say a ball is ‘dead’?”
“Why, that it isn’t—isn’t playable. Like when the fellow who has it is tackled, you know, or when it goes over the goal line.”
“Oh. Seems to me the person who wrote these rules tried to make them as difficult as possible. All mixed up, I call them. Silly.”
“Aren’t thinking of playing, are you?” asked Rodney smilingly.
Kitty turned down the corner of a leaf and nodded slowly. “Yes, I’ve decided that I’ll have to try,” he replied calmly. “Got more time this year. Reading in a paper yesterday that football is great developer of the lungs. Don’t see why it shouldn’t be, eh? Course, a fellow couldn’t rely on football alone. Have to take regular exercises, too. It follows. But in its way, don’t see why football wouldn’t be—er—beneficial. Would it seem so to you, Merrill?”
“Yes.” Rodney struggled to keep from laughing. “Yes, I’d say football might develop the lungs beautifully.”
“Shall try it. Been trying to get the sense of that.” He nodded at the rule book. “Guess you have to play the game to learn what it’s all about though. Complicated. Contradictory. Can’t make heads nor tails of it. What do you wear?”
“Oh, you wear canvas breeches and a canvas jacket thing that laces up the front. And a jersey underneath. And long stockings and shoes with cleats.”
“Cost much?”