began to snore; but Hart sat down in a chair by the window. He marvelled at and envied the half-back's capacity for repose. So far as his own sensations went, he was never so wide awake in all his life. It was the veteran and the novice over again. But the difference in temperament might be taken into account also—Minton always paled when confronted with excitement, while Hart flushed, although he never lost his head.
Just at this present moment Hart felt as though he had swallowed a trip-hammer. He looked at the soiled canvas suit spread out on a chair, and the striped stockings, and would have given the world to have put them on and gone out to do battle on the instant—he hated suspense. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and Franklin, fully dressed, came in.
"Look at that cold-blooded fish," the senior chuckled, pointing at Minton. "And say, Pop, how do you feel, old man, how's the ankle?" he asked, slapping Hart on the shoulder.
"Out of sight," Hart returned. "How's your knee?"
"First-rate," answered Franklin. "Let's go out and take a stroll before grub."
