“Not bad, for a beginner,” responded Kid, sauntering away. Morgan, known familiarly as “Toots,” was the goal-tend on the Day Team. “Toots” was one of the few day pupils who had not aided Kid’s starving family by purchasing a box of Tinkham’s Throat-Ease, and Kid, spying “Toots” tightening his leg-guards at the end of the rink, decided that the omission ought to be corrected.
“Hello, ‘Toots.’”
“Hello, Kid! How are you?” grunted “Toots,” giving a final tug to a strap.
“So, so. Going to beat us, ‘Toots’?”
“Surest thing you know!”
“I dare say.” Kid was quite evidently distrait and depressed, a state so far removed from his usual condition that even “Toots” took notice. Then he remembered that Kid’s father had gone bankrupt, that the old home was to go under the hammer and that Kid—plucky little duffer!—was selling some sort of cough medicine to aid the fallen fortunes. Kid, apparently looking sadly about the rink, shot a glance at “Toots” and uncannily followed his thoughts. “Did you try those throat tablets, ‘Toots’?” he inquired.
“Toots” colored faintly. “I—I didn’t get any, Kid. I didn’t have any money with me yesterday.”
Kid nodded as though in dismissal of the subject. “Toots” cleared his throat and watched Kid’s pathetic listlessness during a moment’s silence. Finally,
“I heard you’d sold out, Kid,” he said hopefully.