Don't forget, Mr. Glass, that
the one Yale football team you trained, I dropped a goal on from
the forty-five-yard line."
Glass allowed his mouth to open in amazement. The day was replete
with surprises.
"'96!" he said, while the light of understanding came over him.
"You're Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines?"
"Yes--Carlisle." Cloudy threw back his head, and pointed with
dignity to the flag of his Alma Mater hanging upon the wall.
"By Jove, I remember that!" exclaimed Speed.
"So will Yale so long as she lives," predicted the Indian,
grimly. "You crippled me in the second half"--he stirred his
withered leg--"but I dropped it on you; and--I have not
forgotten." He ground the last sentence between his teeth.
"See here, Bo--Mr. Cloudy. You don't blame us for that?" Cloudy
grunted, and threw a yellow envelope on the floor at Speed's
feet. "There is something for you," said he, while his lips
curled. He turned, and limped silently to the door.
"And I tried to kid him!" breathed Glass with disgust, when the
visitor had gone. "I ain't been in right since Garfield was
shot.
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