Mr.Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight.
"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be ?" Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and tries to concentrate.
"Oh--ah--I'm damned if I know, Mr.Rooney." "Oh, why of course, of course you can't _use_ that formula.

_That's_ what I wanted you to say." "Why, sure, of course." "Do you see why ?" "You bet--I suppose so." "If you don't see, tell me.

I'm here to show you." "Well, Mr.Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that again." "Gladly.

Now here's 'A'..." The room was a study in stupidity--two huge stands for paper, Mr.Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, and slouched around on chairs, a dozen men: Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely _had_ to get eligible; "Slim" Langueduc, who would beat Yale this fall, if only he could master a poor fifty per cent; McDowell, gay young sophomore, who thought it was quite a sporting thing to be tutoring here with all these prominent athletes.
"Those poor birds who haven't a cent to tutor, and have to study during the term are the ones I pity," he announced to Amory one day, with a flaccid camaraderie in the droop of the cigarette from his pale lips.

"I should think it would be such a bore, there's so much else to do in New York during the term.