And I paid eighty-five cents a pair for those socks, too.
I--I'm having them washed." When the laughter had ceased, Ruddie, who seemed a serious-minded youth, began a story of an uncle of his who had contracted blood-poisoning from the dye in his stockings.

What ultimately happened to the uncle Clint never discovered, for the others very rudely broke in on Ruddie's reminiscences and the conversation became general and varied.

The boy next to Clint, whose name he learned later was Freer, politely inquired as to how Clint liked Brimfield and whether he played football.

To the latter question Clint confided that he did, although probably not well enough to stand much of a chance here.
"Oh, you can't tell," replied Freer encouragingly.

"Come out for practice tomorrow and see.