"Rippin' game that o' yours yesterday.

Rippin'." He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet over a delicate dish.
Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts.
"I say, you know, you--re one of these clever ones--thinkin' an' writin' an' all that--an' _yet_ you play footer like an archangel--a blarsted archangel.

Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily.

"Every time I put on my footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin', Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give! But it ain't likely--my spellin's somethin' shockin'." Here there was interruption.

Several men came rattling; laughing and shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva.
"Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them.