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“He may be a grouch, but he certainly can play ‘feet-ball,’” Rogers replied. “I’d hate to have him on a team against me.”

“He’s the rough stuff”—this was McKnight again—“but that’s about what you’d expect. They say his dad’s a section-man, or something, on a railroad. Queer how such fellows break in.”

“Oh, cut that!” said the other voice, in a tone of marked disapproval. “Can’t you ever forget that you were born with gold fillings in your teeth, Knighty? My father was a house carpenter, if it comes to that.”

“But he didn’t stay a house carpenter,” was the quick retort. “Just now he’s the head of the biggest contracting firm in the State of Iowa.”

“That doesn’t cut any ice, Knighty. You’ve got to take a fellow for what he is; not for what his father is or was.”

“That is exactly what I’m doing with the ‘worm.’ Donovan may be all right on the team, but I’d hate to see myself rooming with him.”

Larry was fully dressed by now, and he didn’t wait to hear any more. And it was only human nature again that made him remember bitterly what McKnight had said, and forget the sensible and ameliorating Rogers’ replies.