“I don’t think it’s bad as it is,” said Laurie, kindly. “You don’t look really fat; you just look sort of—of—”
“Amplitudinous,” supplied Ned, with evident satisfaction.
Proudtree viewed him doubtfully. Then he smiled. “Well, I’ve got to get rid of nearly fifteen pounds in the next two weeks,” he said, with a shake of his head, “and that’s going to take some doing.”
“What for?” Laurie asked. “Why destroy your symmetry?”
“Football. I’m trying for center. I nearly made it last year, but Wiggins beat me out. He’s gone now, though, and Mulford as good as said last spring that I could make it this fall if I could get down to a hundred and sixty-five.”
“Who’s Mulford?” inquired Ned. “A fortune-teller?”
Proudtree ignored the sarcasm. “Mulford’s our coach. He’s all right, too. The trouble with me is, I’m awfully fond of sweet things, and I—I’ve been eating a lot of ’em lately. But I guess I can drop fourteen pounds if I cut out pies and candy and things. Don’t you think so?” Proudtree appealed to Laurie almost pathetically.
“Don’t let any one tell you anything different,” replied Laurie, reassuringly. Ned, evidently recovered from his peevishness, asked:
“What sort of football do they play here?”
“Corking!” answered Proudtree.