He looked rather like a tramp; his hat was a misshapen thing of felt from which the water dripped steadily as he tossed it aside; his sweater--he wore no coat--was soaking wet; and his trousers and much-darned golf stockings were in scarcely better condition.

His hair looked as though he had just taken his head from a water-bucket, and his face bespoke excitement.
"They're coming after you, Livingston," he cried in an intense whisper.
"I heard Cowan telling Carey in the locker-room a minute ago; they didn't know I was there; it was dark as dark.

They've got a carriage, and there are going to be nearly a dozen of them.

I ran all the way as soon as I got on to Oak Street.

There wasn't time to get any of the fellows together, so I just sneaked right over here.