“That’s so; I’d forgotten. Well, you can howl for us when we play Broadwood. We’ve got a pretty good team this year, Alf. That chap, Short, is the best center we’ve ever had.”
“Short? He’s the fellow played substitute last year, isn’t he?” Alf asked. “A little sawed-off about six feet high?”
“That’s the man,” laughed Tom. “There’s nothing short about him except his name. He doesn’t really have to throw the ball into the basket; he just reaches up and drops it in!”
There was a knock on the door, and in response to the dual shout of “Enter, thou!” from Alf and Tom, Gerald appeared.
“Greetings, Mr. Pennimore!” cried Alf. “Kindly close the door behind you and remove your wraps.”
Gerald had no wraps to remove, however, and Dan got after him. “You ought to know better than to run around without even a sweater, Gerald. You’ll catch cold and have pneumonia or something the first thing you know.”
“But I wasn’t cold, really,” protested Gerald, blowing on his fingers as he took the chair Alf had pulled to the fire.
“That’s nonsense,” returned Dan sternly. “It isn’t smart to do things like this, Gerald. It’s just taking risks.”
Alf winked gravely at Tom.