George was perfectly sure that Squibs knew nothing, for he wasn't socially curious, and Betty would have hesitated to talk about what had happened even to Mrs. Squibs, yet he was conscious, after the first moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words.
He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they roared confused pessimism about the game.
"You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the ramp to their section of the stadium.
"I'd be in the way," George objected.
Bailly stared at him.
"George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard and Yale."
George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs called to Green, who was distrait.
"What is it, Mr. Bailly?"
"I've got Morton."
Green sprang to life.