"Well, I do like football, but I play baseball, too. You're something of a football fan yourself, I guess. I see you around most every afternoon."
"Yes, I am. I like to watch. And"—Loring smiled faint apology—"I like to imagine myself playing, Bingham. I like to make believe that if I had a good pair of legs I'd be a wonderful football player. It's rather fun sometimes, pretending."
Clif refrained from looking at the other's legs with difficulty and stammered: "Yes, it is. And—and I dare say you'd be pretty good, too, if you—if you could."
"Thanks," laughed Loring. "You're a gentleman, Bingham! I've said the same thing to Wattles a dozen times and the best I've ever got from him was, 'Oh, very likely, sir.'" There was a protesting sniff from across the room. "Anyway, Bingham, I know football, even if I can't play it. I've got about every book that's ever been written on it." He nodded toward a bookcase behind Clif and the latter turned and looked. Loring had not exaggerated. There was nearly a shelf of them.
"Gee!" muttered Clif. "I didn't know there were half that many in the world. I've never read one of them!"
"You don't need to. You get your knowledge first-*hand."
"Are they—interesting?" asked Clif.
"They are to me. I dare say it sounds conceited, but it's really a fact that I know more football than most
