The particular host of the evening, Coles Wistar, was unlike his room-mate in many ways. Coles was tall, with a thin face and lightish hair, wore glasses and looked intellectual. He had spent a year at a junior preparatory school near Boston before coming to Alton and had managed to acquire the broad A and a Bostonese accent. You could always make a hit with Coles by inferring that he came from the Hub, although as matter of fact, he lived in a small village in New Hampshire. In spite of one or two trifling affectations he was no fool and was an unusually capable manager. Conversation, interrupted by the arrival of Chick and Bert, gathered momentum again. Tommy Parish, it appeared, had, in the terse phraseology of Hank Howard, been “shooting off his mouth again.” “Says the Team’s the rottenest he’s seen since he came here,” explained Hank to Chick. “The silly ass doesn’t know a thing about football, anyway, but you’d think, to hear him go on--” “Pshaw,” began Chick, “why pay attention to that coot? He just likes to hear himself--” But Tommy, even in the midst of Coles’ scathing rejoinder, overheard and challenged Hank’s assertion. “All wrong, Howard. I know a heap more about football than most of you guys who play it, or try to. Why wouldn’t I? All you fellows learn is how to look after your own positions. You’re on the inside looking cross-eyes at your own jobs. I’m on the outside looking in at the whole works. Now let me--” “Muzzle him, somebody,” said Nip Storer. “Tie a can to him,” advised Jim Galvin. “Let the silly ass talk,” laughed Ted Ball. “Go on and tell ’em, Tommy.” “Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility. Any one well acquainted with him--Pill, for instance--would have known that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more about it than he does.” “Quit your kidding,” growled Hank. “He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t answer three questions I can put to him.” “What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously. “Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a back.” “Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,” protested Hank. “There are too many of them!” “Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.” “All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out. First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen if you made the catch?” “I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting a snag. “Hold on,” exclaimed Nip eagerly. “You said he was on-side!” “Keep out, you!” Tommy warned. There were chuckles from some of the others and Hank looked harassed.