fin'ly decided we hadn't when none of the brawny gridiron warriors give me a tumble. Then I remembered that I'd made the original reservations for us at Hermit Inn under our real names and had forgot to explain matters when we registered as poet, playwright, and artist. The ancient jazzbo which operated the resort had most doubtless told the students that the famous ex-champion was comin' to park at his deadfall and the college boys is all excited about the thing. I tried to horn in amongst 'em and get pally, but they immediately put on the ice for me. They was so sore at the supposed "poet" for capturin' Eva Littleton that the three of us was about as popular as gallopin' consumption.
One bird in particular kept glowerin' at the Kid and Eva and mutterin' under his breath in a way which soon got me plenty leary. This boloney was nothin' else than Jim Barnaby, captain and fullback of the football addicts. He was a whale of a man, there was no question about that—somethin' over six foot with his hair brushed back, high cheek-boned, thicknecked, and with shoulders on him like a bull. Oh, this entry was a tough baby, and when I heard that he was Eva's heavy boy friend and knew he hadn't recognized Kid Roberts, I seen nothin' ahead for us that was pleasant!
Well, durin' the next few days Eva Littleton didn't give the Kid a minute's peace. From the way she clung to the boy her name could of been Ivy instead of Eva! Kid Roberts would stroll about with these books of pomes under his arm, duckin' behind trees
