Number 16 was already pretty well crowded when Slim and the diffident Leonard entered. Captain Emerson was there, and so was his roommate, George Patterson. Then there was Billy Wells, Tod Tenney, Jim Newton, Gordon Renneker and a chap named Edwards who later turned out to be the baseball captain. As it seemed to be taken for granted that every one knew every one else Leonard was not introduced. He and Slim squeezed onto a bed beside Jim Newton--the thing squeaked threateningly but held--and Rus passed them a bottle of ginger-ale, with two straws, and a carton of biscuits. Having helped themselves to the biscuits, they passed it on to Newton. Jim, at the moment engaged in conversation with Tod Tenney, absent-mindedly set the box on the bed. After that it couldn’t be found until Jim got up to go. And then it wasn’t worth finding, for it had slipped down under the big chap and was no longer recognizable. A good deal of “shop” was talked, in spite of Captain Emerson’s repeated protests. The Mt. Millard game was discussed exhaustively. The only feature concerned with it that was not mentioned was the Alton line-up. That seemed to be taboo. Tod Tenney declared that if Alton didn’t wipe the ground up with those fellows this time he’d resign and let the team go to the bow-wows. Whereupon Jim Newton gave a grunt and remarked that maybe if Tod resigned beforehand it would change their luck. “Luck!” countered Tod. “It isn’t your luck that’s wrong, you big piece of cheese. You’re scared of those fellows over at Warren. They’ve put the kibosh on you. Why, last year you didn’t know whether you were on your head or your heels. They didn’t have half the team that you had, and you went and let them lick the daylight out of you.” “Sic ’em, Prince!” murmured Stick Patterson. “Oh, well,” said Billy Wells confidently, “never mind last year, Tod. Keep your glimmers on Saturday’s fracas. We’re going to smear those lucky guys all over the field. We’ve got it on them in weight this year and--” “We had last year, too, hadn’t we?” asked Edwards. “Not above the collar,” grunted Tenney. “For the love of Mike, fellows,” begged Rus, “shut up on football. It’s enough to play it every day without having to talk it all evening.” “What else do you expect football men to talk about?” asked Slim, rolling the empty ginger-ale bottle under Stick’s bed. “You ought to know, Rus, that the football player’s intellect isn’t capable of dealing with any other subject.” “Dry up, Slim,” said Billy Wells, “and move over, you poor insect. I want to talk to General Grant.” There being no room to move over without sitting in Jim Newton’s lap, Slim crossed the room and took the arm of the Morris chair, just vacated by Billy. Billy squeezed onto the bed, securing another inch or two by digging Jim violently with an elbow. Jim grunted and said: “Little beast!” Billy turned a shrewd, smiling countenance on Leonard. “Well, how’s it going?” he asked.