"Well, how's the weather, Cloudy?"
"Mr. Cloudy to you," said the other. Both Glass and his protege stared. It was the first word the Indian had uttered since their arrival. Lawrence winked at his companion.
"All right, if you like it better. How's the weather, Mister Cloudy?" He snickered at his own joke, whereupon the aborigine turned upon him slowly, and said, in perfect English:
"Your humor is misplaced with me. Don't forget, Mr. Glass, that the one Yale football team you trained, I dropped a goal on from the forty-five-yard line."
Glass allowed his mouth to open in amazement. The day was replete with surprises.
"'96!" he said, while the light of understanding came over him. "You're Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines?"
"Yes—Carlisle." Cloudy threw back his head, and pointed with dignity to the flag of his Alma Mater hanging upon the wall.
"By Jove, I remember that!" exclaimed Speed.
"So will Yale so long as she lives," predicted the Indian, grimly. "You crippled me in the second half"—he stirred his withered leg—"but I dropped it on you; and—I have not forgotten." He ground the last sentence between his teeth.
"See here, Bo—Mr. Cloudy. You don't blame us for that?" Cloudy grunted, and threw a yellow envelope on the floor at Speed's feet. "There is something for you," said he, while his lips curled. He turned, and limped silently to the door.