Kewpie started away, paused, and spoke again. “They’re—they’re awfully modest chaps, Joe. You’d think from hearing them talk that they didn’t know much about the game, but don’t you be fooled. That’s just their way. You understand.”
“Oh, sure, Kewpie!” And when the latter had gone on his errand Joe smiled and, lowering his voice, said to Frank Brattle: “Kewpie’s trying to put something over. I wonder what.”
“Proudtree tells me one of you fellows plays football,” said Joe, a minute later, when introductions had been performed and Ned and Laurie had seated themselves. “We need good players this fall. Of course, I hope you’ll both come out.”
“Ned’s the football chap,” said Laurie. “Baseball’s my line.”
“I don’t know—” began Ned, but Laurie pinched him warningly, and he gulped and, to Kewpie’s evident relief, made a fresh start. “I’m not much of a player,” he said modestly, “but I’m willing to have a try at it.”
Kewpie darted an “I-told-you-so” glance at Joe and Frank.
“Where do you come from, Turner?” Joe asked politely.
“Santa Lucia, California. I was in the high school there two years. Everything’s quite—quite different here.” Ned spoke hurriedly, as though anxious to switch the conversation from football, and Laurie smiled in wicked enjoyment. “The climate’s different, you know,” Ned went on desperately, “and the country and—and everything.”
“I suppose so,” said Frank Brattle. “What’s your position, Turner?”
“Position?”