He had been stretched at full length on the big window-seat.

"Here it is in a nutshell," he continued, waving the paper he was reading.
"'First a signal, then a thud, And your face is in the mud.
Some one jumps upon your back, And your ribs begin to crack.
Hear a whistle.

"Down!" That's all.
'Tis the way to play football.'" "Pretty good, eh?
Hello, what's up?
Your face looks as bright as though you'd polished it.

How dare you allow your countenance to express joy when in another quarter of an hour I shall be struggling over my head in the history of Rome during the second Punic War?
But there, go ahead; unbosom yourself.

I can see you're bubbling over with delightful news.
Have they decided to abolish the Latin language?
Or has the faculty been kidnaped?
Have they changed their minds and decided to take me with 'em to New Haven to-morrow?
Come, little Bright Eyes, out with it!" Sydney told his good news, not without numerous eager interruptions from Neil, and when he had ended the latter executed what he called a "Punic war-dance." It was rather a striking performance, quite stately and impressive, for when one's left shoulder is made immovable by much bandaging it is difficult, as Neil breathlessly explained, to display _abandon_--the latter spoken through the nose to give it the correct French pronunciation.
"And, if you're not good to me," laughed Sydney, "I'll get back at you in practise.