“Yes, the room is really very nice. We could do with a little more space, but we’re not suffering. Help yourself to the paper, Wattles. Wattles, you see, Bingham, is always restless until he gets the paper and learns the football scores.”
“Really?” Clif looked across at the man with some surprise. “So you’re a football bug—er—Wattles.”
“Oh, it isn’t our game he’s interested in,” Loring laughed. “What he wants to read is that the Stoke Pogis Hotspurs won from the Lancashire Argonauts or the Welsh Terriers beat the Bermin’am Brindles.”
“Oh, I see,” said Clif. “Over in England, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles gravely. “It’s the game I know best, Mr. Bingham.”
“Don’t you like our game?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s most interesting, but I don’t understand it so very well yet. It seems just a bit confusing to the—the layman, sir.”
Loring chuckled, and Clif, smiling, said: “Oh, but you’ll soon get the hang of it, Wattles, and be cheering your head off for us.”
“Very likely, sir, and I’m sure I hope you will be successful, Mr. Bingham. I have been giving a great deal of attention and study to the game, but—” and here Wattles smiled reproachfully—“Mister Loring isn’t much help, sir.”
Clif looked inquiringly at Loring. Loring was instantly indignant. “Why, how you talk, Wattles! I’ve explained and explained to you, you thankless beggar!”