"That's so," Livingston concurred. "Fletcher, White, Jewell, Brown,
Stowell--who else?"

"Well, I'm not feeling well myself," said Foster.

"We were referring to _players_, Teddy, my love," replied South sweetly.

"Insulted!" cried Foster, leaping wildly to his feet. "It serves me
right for associating with a lot of freshmen. Good-night, Fletcher, my
wounded gladiator. Get well and come back to us; all will be forgiven."

"I'd like the chance of forgiving the fellow that jumped on my
shoulder," said Neil. "I'd send him to join Murdoch."

"That's not nice," answered Foster gravely. "Forgive your enemies.
Good-night, you cubs."

"Hold on," said Livingston, "I'm going your way. Good-night, Fletcher.
Cheer up and get well. We need you and so does the team. Remember the
class is looking forward to seeing you win a few touch-downs in the
Robinson game."

"Oh, I'll be all right," answered Neil, "and if they'll let me into the
game I'll do my best. Only--I'm afraid I'll be a bit stale when I get
out again."

"Not you," declared Livingston heartily. "'Age can not wither nor custom
stale your infinite variety.'"