There came a knock at the door—a timid, hesitating sort of knock.
“Oh, hang it! If that’s Ikey, trying to sell me a blue sweater, I’ll throw him down stairs!” growled Andy. He was nervous.
“Come in!” called Dunk, laughing.
“Is Andy Blair——Oh, hello, there you are, old man!” cried a voice and Chet Anderson thrust his head into the room.
“Well, you old rosebud!” yelled Andy, leaping out of the easy chair with such energy that the bit of furniture slid almost into the big fireplace. “Where’d you blow in from?”
“I came with the Harvard bunch. I told you I’d see you here.”
“I know, but I didn’t expect to see you until the game. You’re not going to play?”
“No—worse luck! Wish I was. Hear you may be picked.”
“There’s a chance, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, we’ll lick you anyhow!”