Loring Deane smiled. No one, he was aware, not even the capable Wattles, could be really comfortable for any length of time on one of those silly, backless canvas stools; especially while sitting bolt upright. He had tried to induce Wattles to bring a chair along, offering to carry it in front of him, but Wattles had been frightfully outraged at the bare suggestion. Loring returned to watching the scene, and Wattles, producing an immaculate handkerchief from the breast pocket of his black coat, removed the black derby from his head and gently mopped a perspiring forehead. Then, handkerchief and hat properly returned to their respective places, hands again on the seams of his trousers, he, too, gave his attention once more to the somewhat astonishing proceedings.
Football of this particular style was new to Wattles. Wattles had been born in England some thirty years ago, and, although he had been in this country ever since the age of nineteen and once a year strode, almost impressively, to the polling booth and cast his vote, he was still English. His speech scarcely betrayed him since he had gone to much pains to acquire the phraseology and accent of his adopted country, but one had only to view his countenance to surprise his secret. Loring's father had once declared that Wattles had the features of a faithful horse. That was perhaps a picturesque exaggeration, but it couldn't be denied that there was something oddly equine in Wattles's face. He had pale brown eyes, a remarkably long and very sizable nose and a chin—well, the best description of
