Kewpie Proudtree obeyed the shouted invitation to enter Number 16 and appeared with a countenance as innocent as that of an infant. “Hello, fellows,” he said cordially, dropping into a chair with indications of exhaustion. “How do you like it as far as you’ve gone?”
Ned shifted in his seat at the study-table, choking back a groan, and fixed Kewpie with a baleful look. “Listen, Proudtree,” he said sternly. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
“With me?” Kewpie stared in amazement. “What have I done?”
“You’ve got me into a fix, that’s what you’ve done! Didn’t you ask me—us—last night not to let on to Stevenson that we—I—couldn’t play football? Didn’t you say it would be a favor to you? Didn’t you say it would be all right and—and everything?”
“Sure! What of it?”
“Why, you crazy galoot, you must have told him that I knew all about the game! And you knew mighty well I didn’t! Stevenson thinks I’m a wonder, and I don’t know a touch-down from a—a forward kick!”
“Pass, not kick,” corrected Kewpie, patiently. “Look here, Turner— Say, are you Ned or Laurie? Blessed if I can tell!”
“Ned,” replied that youth, with much dignity.
“Guess I’ll have to call you Ned, then. Can’t call you both Turner. You understand. It was like this, Ned. You see, I want to stand in with Joe Stevenson. It—it’s for the good of the school. If they don’t play me at center this fall, who are they going to play? Well, Joe thought I—well, he seemed to think I hadn’t acted just right about keeping my weight down. He—he was sort of peeved with me. So I wanted to smooth him down a bit. You understand. That’s why I told him what I did.”
“Well, what did you tell him?”