and you didn't fool me a bit. You tackled
Carmine because he was in the way and you ran into him and put your arms
around him to keep from falling on your nose. It was no brilliancy of
yours that made the poor chap fumble the ball. You hit him like a load
of bricks! If I'd been Carmine I'd have up and biffed you one! You
were--were distinctly ungentlemanly, Clint. You should remember that
even in football there are limits. To deliberately try to kill an
opponent, as you did today, is not considered good form. Besides,
Carmine's a friend of mine. We come from the same metropolis. It would
be a very painful thing if I had to write home to his folks that he had
been killed on the field of battle by my room-mate. A most painful and
embarrassing duty for me, Clint."

"It's going to be my painful and embarrassing duty to stuff a towel in
your silly mouth in about two minutes," replied Clint. "How did you
happen to see practice? I thought you were going to play tennis
with Scannel."

"He didn't show up. I suppose his courage failed him at the last
moment."

"Yes, it must be trying to beat anyone the way he beats you. I don't
blame him for shirking it."

"When Bob Scannel beats me," replied Amy serenely, "you'll be playing
football on the Varsity, old top, and I'll be getting A's in math., a
far, far day!"

"I suppose I'll be going to training table before long," said Clint
reflectively.

Amy groaned. "There you go! That's the sort of stuff I'll have to listen
to from now on. I hope to goodness you choke on a prune! That's about
all you'll get there; prunes and boiled rice. I'm not sure about the
rice, either, at the second's table. I think the second simply has
prunes. Boiled prunes for breakfast, roast prunes for dinner and dried
prunes for supper. I--I shall expect to notice a wonderful imprunement
in you very soon, Clint."

"And that's the sort of stuff _I_ have to listen to!" exclaimed the
other. "Honest, Amy, you make the bummest jokes!"

"I think that was rather good, myself," said Amy cheerfully. "I believe
I'll send it to the _Bulletin_. I've observed of late that the
_Bulletin_ has lacked humour."

"Did it ever have any?" asked Clint, folding the letter he had been
struggling over.

"Unconsciously, yes. Last year someone contributed a sonnet called
'Truth.' No one could see much sense in it until some smart chap
discovered that the first letters of each line spelled 'The Bulletin is
Punk.' Now when you