"What for?" Laurie asked. "Why destroy your symmetry?"
"Football. I'm trying for center. I nearly made it last year, but Wiggins beat me out. He's gone now, though, and Mulford as good as said last spring that I could make it this fall if I could get down to a hundred and sixty-five."
"Who's Mulford?" inquired Ned. "A fortune-teller?"
Proudtree ignored the sarcasm. "Mulford's our coach. He's all right, too. The trouble with me is, I'm awfully fond of sweet things, and I--I've been eating a lot of 'em lately. But I guess I can drop fourteen pounds if I cut out pies and candy and things. Don't you think so?" Proudtree appealed to Laurie almost pathetically.
"Don't let any one tell you anything different," replied Laurie, reassuringly. Ned, evidently recovered from his peevishness, asked:
"What sort of football do they play here?"
"Rugby!" exclaimed Proudtree, scornfully. "I guess not! We play regular football. Nobody plays Rugby around these parts. Are you fellows going out?"
"He means are we going to try for the football team," explained Laurie. "Yes, we are, Proudtree; at least, one of us is."
"We haven't decided yet. You see, we've never played your kind of football. Back home, at high school, we played American Rugby, and it's quite different. But we decided that one of us had better go in for football and the other for baseball, if only to do our duty by the school."
Proudtree looked puzzled. "How are you going to decide?" he asked.
"Oh, we'll toss up or draw lots or something, I suppose. Maybe, though, Ned had better play football, because I know more baseball than he does. Still, I'm not particular."
"That's the limit!" chuckled the visitor. "Say, what are your names? I didn't see any cards on the door."
"Turner. His is Laurie and mine's Ned," answered the latter. "Do we put our names on the door?"
"It's the best way," answered Proudtree. "Well, I've got to be moving. I started to take a shower and got side-tracked. You chaps come on over and see me and I'll get some of the other fellows in. You want to meet the right sort, you know. What's your class?"
"Lower middle, I reckon," said Ned. "That's what we expect."
"Too bad you can't make upper. That's mine. We've got a corking bunch of fellows this year. Well, see you later. Try for Mr. Barrett's table when you go down. That's the best. Maybe they'll put you there if you bluff it out. You understand. So long, fellows."