Tomlinson, Everett Titsworth, 1859-1931 / 2008-07-31 00:00:00
"Who were after you?" demanded Foster still more sharply.
"The sophomores."
"Don't you believe it!"
"Why, they'd have got me if I hadn't put in my prettiest."
"Nobody would have paid any attention to you if you hadn't run. You drew
it all on yourself and have no one else to blame."
"Guess you weren't there when I landed! They gave such a yell when I
started from the cars as I never heard before in all my born days."
"Did you think they were yelling for you?"
"Of course I did. I knew they'd be waiting for me."
"Peter John, you've made a fool of yourself. There wasn't a soul there
except Will and me that knew there was such a fellow in all the world as
Peter John Schenck. Everybody in college will know it now, though."
"What made 'em yell so, then?" demanded Peter John.
"They weren't yelling for you at all. They were cheering for Baker, the
captain of the football team. He was just ahead of you."
"They were?"
"That's what I said." Foster smiled slightly as he spoke, for the
expression upon the face of Peter John was a study. Consternation,
incredulity, and partial unbelief in what Foster had said were all
expressed there, and his entire attitude was so indescribably ludicrous
as almost to be pathetic.
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