a half smile and a straightening back of his shoulders.
"If I didn't know they fed you well at the training-table," put in Terence Golatly, slapping the soles of Hart's feet with the handle of a tennis racket, "I should say that you had the same thing that was the matter with the little bird who sang 'Tit Willow, Tit Willow, Tit Willow,'—love, or-er-indigestion."
"He's ashamed of the way he treated that big right guard from Lafayette yesterday," said Simeon Tolker Congreve. "You were awfully rude, Pop, and if I were you I should write a letter of apology."
Again Hart smiled. The day before he had played his first game on the 'Varsity eleven (although he had been riding in "that she-bang" for the past week) and, making use of a college expression, in the game referred to, the big freshman had "everlastingly torn his shirt,"—which means that he had accomplished everything expected of him and a little bit more; but there was something on his mind and this was a fact. It was nothing very tangible as yet, and certainly nothing that he could talk about, being merely this:
