running with the ball, and I knew you were just having your joke, sir."
Clif had to laugh when Loring did, although he tried not to for fear of wounding Wattles's feelings. "Oh, well," said Loring, "I was kidding you that time, Wattles, but usually you may rely implicitly on what I tell you."
"Yes, sir," replied Wattles, dryly but respectfully, "but I can't always say when you're spoofin'—I should say kidding, sir!"
The two boys exchanged amused glances as Wattles retired to the other side of the room with the paper. There was a low table near Loring's chair, and on it, amongst other things, was a folding chess-board and an oblong box. Clif nodded toward it. "That's a chess-board, isn't it? You ought to get Tom Kemble to give you a game. He's rather a shark at chess."
"Then you're not? Kemble's the fellow I see you with so often, isn't he?"
"Yes. Tom says I haven't enough brains for chess. Maybe that's it. Anyhow, I'm absolutely punk."
"I'd like to play with you some time," said Loring. "Wattles is getting so he can beat me now, and I don't care about being licked every time. It's too monotonous. How are you at checkers?"
"Oh, I play a little, but I'm not much better than at chess. I can't get interested enough, I guess."
"Football's your one and only love, then," smiled Loring.
