Jimmy was at the store in the morning and Russell went over the stock with him, explaining cost marks and various other matters that should form part of a clerk’s knowledge. Jimmy was, for once, not in the least flippant, and Stick, when he finally appeared to release Russell for a recitation, appeared to view the new employee more leniently than Russell had dared hope he might. Jimmy’s duties were not to begin until the morrow, and presently he and Russell hurried back to the Academy together.

“Your friend Stick seems rather a Gloomy Gus,” observed Jimmy on the way, “but perhaps by kindness and forbearance we may cheer him up. Is he taking the afternoon watch to-day, Rus?”

“Yes, I’m going back after this class, and he’s going to stay from three to five-thirty. Stick’s not a bad sort, but he doesn’t put his best foot forward very often.”

“I didn’t think to notice his feet,” replied Jimmy thoughtfully. “Well, here’s where we part. Oh, by the way, what about my attire? Do you think I ought to – well, dress for the part to-morrow? Something, say, a trifle modish, eh? Gray trousers and frock-coat, maybe, with a lavender tie and a single black pearl in it. Or do you think the usual more negligent dress would answer?”

“I’d go in for simplicity,” answered Russell, grinning. “What you have on looks all right. Besides, customers might think you bought those knickers in the store, and that would be quite an advertisement, eh?”

“Right-o! Well, see you this afternoon, doubtless. So long, Mister Employer!”

There was nothing very dramatic about Russell’s return to the football fold. A hurried and curt-spoken Gaston welcomed him with a sudden smile and a brief congratulatory nod. “Fine, Emerson!” he called as he passed. “B Squad for you.”

Followed half an hour’s work that proved to Russell very conclusively that he was in no good shape for the task ahead of him. He had lost a fortnight’s training and the fact was evident. Long before signal drill was done he was aching in most of his muscles and puffing like a grampus. He was glad indeed of a short respite on the bench before the squad walked across to the first team gridiron, where, although the time for scrimmage had arrived, a squad under leadership of Ned Richards was still hustling down the field, Ned’s voice, sharply imperative, rising above the tones of Coach Cade and Captain Proctor, trailing behind and rapping out criticism. That bunch, reflected Russell as he paused with his companions to form a sweatered and blanketed group along the edge of the field, was the first team’s A Squad, although there were two players on it whose presence surprised him. These were Crocker, at left end in place of Lake, and Greenwood, at full-back. Joe Greenwood was Sid’s brother, a heavy, dark-complexioned youth who had played with Russell on last year’s second. Russell hadn’t thought him varsity material, but he was displacing the veteran Browne. Possibly, though, Browne was on the hospital list or in trouble at the Office: Russell hadn’t been following football very closely.

The rest of the squad were first-string men: Butler, playing at left tackle for Captain Mart Proctor, Rowlandson, Nichols, Stimson, Putney, McLeod, Richards, Harmon, Moncks. Across the sunlit field, the substitutes’ bench showed far fewer huddled forms than had sat there last week, indicating that the first cut had taken effect. In the stands a score or so of onlookers were scattered, their hands more often than not thrust deeply in their pockets, for the afternoon was chill in spite of the flood of late sunlight. Captain Proctor detached himself from the followers behind the squad as it trotted past down the center of the gridiron and cupped his hands.

“Ready for you in five minutes, Gaston!” he called. “Help yourself to the field, will you?”

Steve Gaston nodded and tossed a ball to the turf. “Pass it around,” he ordered crisply, “and keep moving.”

So the second team players strung out along the edge of the gridiron in two roughly formed ranks and, walking briskly, shot the ball from one to another, frequently tripping over a trailing blanket when the pigskin eluded them and bobbed across the turf. Finally there was the hoarse squawking of a horn and Manager Johnson was signaling them. Two sweatered substitutes were unsnarling the chain. From the stand came a rat-a-tat of chilling feet against the boards.

“Second team’s ball,” announced Coach Cade through his small megaphone. “We’ll take this goal!”

“Yah,” derided the scrub’s captain sotto-voce as he pranced about, limbering his legs, “why don’t you let us toss for it, Tightwad?” Russell grinned as his glance met Falls’. “They haven’t kicked off to us for a week,” the captain added ruefully, yet smiling. “Come on, fellows! Let’s take it away from them!”

“You take right end, Emerson,” ordered Coach Gaston. “Look out for Harmon on forward passes, boy. All right, Second! Go to it! You fellows who aren’t playing, keep your blankets on. You’ll be wanted before this ruckus is through.”

The second lined up across the field for the kick-off, a whistle shrilled and big Jim Newton, center, lifted the ball well toward the first team’s goal. Russell, following down under the kick, scanning warily the hastily forming enemy interference, told himself that it was good to feel the sod underfoot again, to hear the soft rasp of canvas and creak of leather. Then he was swinging on a heel to dash across the field toward where Moncks, the pigskin clutched tightly, was coming along behind his interference. It was not Russell who stopped Moncks, but Captain Falls. The best Russell could do was topple Richards, in doing which he got a fine rap on the side of his head that, partly broken by the edge of his helmet, was yet hard enough to make his senses swim for a moment. When he got unsteadily to his feet again the teams were lining up near the thirty-five-yard line. Behind each team was its coach, and their voices were already to be heard. Russell, skirting the first team line to his position, saw that Captain Proctor was at his place again. Then Ned Richards yelped the signal, the lines swayed, met, there were gasps and grunts, an angry, stifled exclamation from Wells, the scrub’s right tackle, a hoarse bellow from Falls, and Harmon was crashing out of the welter of brown canvas bodies. Russell, playing out and back, sprang in, eluded the savage spring of an interferer and got his man, aided by Reilly, a half. But Harmon was hard to stop, and both tacklers gave ground for another yard ere the runner was down. Russell, blocking with one knee Harmon’s attempt to thrust the ball forward, muttered: “No, you don’t!” Then the whistle piped just as reënforcements plunged down on the group. Harmon had made four yards outside Wells, and Wells was mad. He muttered aloud as he crouched with swaying arms at the end of the line, and Russell caught his threatening, taunting words.

“Come on! Try that again, you big stiff! I’ll put that long nose of yours on the blink for keeps! Send it this way, Ned! Come on, you Sore-Heads! Oh, you would, eh?”

This latter remark was to Mart Proctor, who had feinted inside Wells as the ball was snapped. There was an ecstatic moment for Wells, and then Mart deposited him neatly against his guard and tore outside him. Russell, already crossing behind the backs, left the invader to Reilly and met the play which was coming through left tackle. It was Greenwood this time, and the full-back added another three yards to the total. On the next attempt there was a fumble by Moncks, recovered by Richards for a yard loss. Then first team punted, Richards dropping the ball in Goodwin’s arms on the scrub’s twenty-yard line and the left half reeling off seven strides before he was downed by Crocker.

Carpenter, the scrub quarter, made two on a wide run and then Reilly, red-headed and hard-fighting, squirmed through Rowlandson for three more. But that ended the advance and Kendall punted well into enemy territory. First gained three on a criss-cross, Harmon carrying, and then Richards passed diagonally across the line to McLeod, and the latter, catching the heave unchallenged, went half-way to second’s goal before Carpenter stopped him. Play was held up while first team and second team coaches criticized and instructed, and while Russell, his last breath about gone, sat on the ground and longed for the horn to sound the end of the period. Then he was up again, almost on his fifteen-yard line, set for a forward pass that didn’t materialize. Harmon carried past Wells once more and fought and squirmed to the scrub’s twenty-one. Falls went down the crouching line and slapped perspiring backs and implored his men to hold, and Gaston, deep-voiced, shouted to Goodwin to close in and watch that guard! Then came the play again, and, over the heads of his plunging team-mates, Russell saw Richards, ball in hand, trotting back and back, saw Harmon sneaking fast across the turf to the left, saw Squibbs dash headlong at Richards, saw the latter side-step, calmly, smilingly, and saw the right arm go back for the long throw. All about him were warning voices as he forced his tired legs and tuckered lungs to new exertion.

“Pass! Watch that man! Stop that throw!”

Russell, running, glanced back. Overhead was the ball, a dozen yards ahead was Harmon, walking sidewise, hands ready. Behind Russell streamed the field, coming fast but too late to get into the play. Carpenter was closing up the gap between his position and the side line. Russell called on his flagging strength for one last supreme effort. Harmon had stopped, was facing the descending ball, had raised his arms. Russell was still a good six yards distant and he knew that Harmon would be off before he could reach him. There was but one chance and he took it. Throwing his arms high, he leaped into the air, hoping against hope. But fortune was with him. The flying pigskin grazed his left hand. The touch of it was so light that Russell scarcely felt it, but it served to deflect the ball. Harmon swayed to the right, the ball spurned his eager grasp and went trickling, bouncing across the turf toward the side line. Russell paid no further attention to it. He eased himself gently to the ground and turned onto his back. A minute later Lawrence pulled him to his feet and put a strong arm under his shoulders.

“Good work, Emerson,” he panted. “Better step out. Gaston’s looking. All right now?”

“Yes,” said Russell faintly. “I’m – fearfully – soft!”

They made their way back to the forming line-up, but Coach Gaston intervened. “That’ll do, Emerson,” he called. Then, turning to the far side of the field, “Tierney!” he bawled. “Tierney! Hurry up!”

Russell yielded his helmet and went off with drooping head. He was heartily ashamed of himself. He had lasted some eight minutes only! Of course the reason wasn’t far to seek: a fellow can’t play football if he isn’t conditioned; and Russell realized that he was very far from conditioned. A summer spent largely indoors hadn’t, he thought ruefully, prepared him very well for what was before him. He sank down in the line of waiting substitutes and wondered if he would ever get his breath fully back again!

Of course first team went over. Having reached the twenty yard line, it wasn’t to be held by anything the second had to offer in the way of argument. Moncks got a good gain through center and Harmon made it first down on the scrub’s sixteen. From there, using concealed plays, the first wore down the defense until, on fourth down, with the ball on the five yards, Richards faked a forward and passed to Moncks and the latter raced around the second’s left for a touchdown. The period ended soon after and the second team players joined the substitutes and huddled into blankets and listened to a grave discourse on their shortcomings and failures from the coach.

When the second period started Steve Gaston put on almost a new eleven. Russell didn’t go in again, but sat on the turf, wrapped in a faded gray blanket, and saw Tierney play right end. And Tierney did very well, Russell thought, even if he did let Harmon get safely off with another forward pass that paved the way for the first team’s second score. For that matter, Russell had almost done the same thing himself. He was still wondering why he had been caught flat-footed on that play!

Coach Cade likewise called on his second-string players for the last period, and on his third-string as well. Russell saw with satisfaction that when Jimmy Austen supplanted Mawson at left half – Harmon had not started the last period – his punting, if not in the least phenomenal, was very good. Russell got a case of mild heart-failure every time the ball went to Jimmy for travel by the aerial route, for Jimmy was deliberate to a fault. It looked as though he simply hated to part from that ball until at least two of the enemy were almost upon him. But he had Fortune with him to-day, and of his four punts not one was blocked and each went its way as he fore-ordained it to; forty yards, forty-five and, once, a magnificent fifty-odd. At carrying the ball, though, Jimmy met with less success, and after each of his several attempts Russell heard the incisive voice of the coach dealing out rebuke.

Second didn’t score that afternoon, didn’t approach to scoring, indeed, and, afterwards, Steve Gaston’s quiet thoughtfulness indicated that he wasn’t any too well pleased. Steve had yanked Squibbs and Emerson back to the fold and added two other unknown quantities in the persons of a brace of sophomores who had messed about with last year’s freshman team. So far, so good, but the second team was still far from the hard-fighting, bull-dog aggregation that he was working for. He told himself that the weight was there, and the aggressiveness, and the knowledge sufficient for his ends, but that for some reason the fellows weren’t using them. He wondered if there was some way in which to make the team forget that they were doing battle with their fellows and really fight! Of the crowd, Wells was the only one who exhibited the proper spirit. When Wells went into action friendship ceased. Put Wells in football togs and he would have fought to a finish with his grandmother! Sometimes Steve had to call the tackle down for “slanging” too much, but he always hated to do it. If he could only get the rest of the team into the same frame of mind he would, he felt, have a real eleven, an eleven that would make history.

On the way out of the gymnasium he caught sight of Russell and hailed him. “I used you a bit hard this afternoon, Emerson,” he said, “but I wanted to see how you showed up, and there isn’t much time for coddling.”

“I’m afraid I showed up pretty poorly,” said Russell. “I had no idea a fellow could go stale so soon, Gaston.”

“I know.” Gaston nodded. “You were all right, though. Get some one to work out the kinks in your muscles to-night. A good hot bath will help, if you get right into bed afterwards. I’ll let you off easy to-morrow. How did the team strike you?”

Russell hesitated, for it hadn’t occurred to him before to consider that subject. “Pretty fair,” he said at last. “It’s early yet.”

“It’s never early when it comes to getting a team in shape,” responded the coach. “I’ve got the stuff there, Emerson, but I don’t get it out. I will, though, by ginger! I’m going to make that bunch deliver the goods. Well, good night. Take care of yourself.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE NEW ASSISTANT

“If I only had a tin dinner-pail!” reflected Jimmy regretfully as he turned into West street the next morning and caught sight of the gay sign above the doorway of Number 112. His enthusiasm had brought him there at a minute after half-past eight and to his surprise the store was still locked. But Russell had provided him with a key and Jimmy thrust it into the lock with an important air and swung open the creaking door. The place exhaled a stale odor of withered flowers, and Jimmy traversed the long aisle and threw open the rear door as well. From the unwillingness displayed by the bolts he judged that that portal was seldom disturbed. He looked out. There was a diminutive yard there surrounded by a sagging board fence and littered with boxes and rubbish. A gate gave onto a narrow alley beyond which was another fence above whose rim could be seen the trees and white gables and red chimney-tops of the residences on State street. Jimmy went back into the store and looked about him. Through the front door came the morning sunlight, displaying to his disapproving gaze a very dirty floor.

“Might as well do the thing right,” said Jimmy to himself. In a dark corner stood a dilapidated broom. In the back yard he had noted a box half-full of sawdust. Jimmy removed his coat, folded it, placed it beneath the counter alongside the cigar box that did duty as a money drawer for the Sign of the Football, and went to work. A small sink at the back of the store provided water, and Jimmy moistened the sawdust thoroughly and then, starting at the front of the place, sprinkled it lavishly. After that, whistling blithely, he went to work. Now and then he paused to observe a passer or to watch hopefully some one who had paused outside the window. But no one infringed on his solitude; no one, that is, until Jimmy had the sawdust swept nearly to the back door. Then it was Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer who appeared.

He showed no surprise at Jimmy’s presence. Perhaps he had overheard the arrangements being made yesterday. But he did show a concern that almost amounted to disapproval. “H’m,” he said sadly, viewing the thick windrow of dirty sawdust in front of the boy’s broom. “H’m.”

“Good morning,” responded Jimmy brightly. “Cleaning up a bit, you see, sir.”

“Yes. H’m. Well, there’s a man comes in to do that the first of the month. Washes the windows, too.”

“Whether it’s needed or not,” said Jimmy innocently.

“Sweeping makes a good deal of dust,” continued the other severely.

“Collects a good deal, too,” answered Jimmy, continuing toward the door.

Mr. Pulsifer pretended to be affected by the dust and coughed delicately. “It’s bad for the flowers,” he said querulously. “I’d rather you didn’t do it, my boy.”

He coughed again and went back to his wire enclosure. Being called “my boy” grated on Jimmy and he leaned on the handle of his broom and favored Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer with a malignant stare. Then he finished his job, placed the now almost useless broom back in the dim corner, washed his hands, dried them on his breeches for want of other means and started after his coat.

“Please close the back door if you’re through,” said Mr. Pulsifer drearily. “There’s a draft.”

Jimmy obeyed. When he had his coat on again he stationed himself behind the small show-case and looked into the street. After a while that occupation palled and he pulled a box down from a shelf and removed the lid. It was empty. So was the next one. So were all boxes in that tier. Jimmy grinned and tried the next pile. He was more fortunate. Three gray sweaters rewarded him. He took one out, examined it, held it before him and shook his head.

“Too small,” he muttered. The others were too small also. He put the garments back and returned the box to its place. Then he surveyed the goods in the window. Raising his eyes, he saw two boys doing the same thing from beyond the glass. They weren’t Academy fellows, nor, since the hour was now nine o’clock, could they be high school fellows. Yet they were well dressed and appeared to have plenty of time on their hands. In age they were evidently about sixteen years. Their gazes were set on the tennis racket and they were discussing it seriously. Jimmy could see their lips moving, but could hear no sounds. After a moment he withdrew from sight and went swiftly to the doorway. There he stepped just outside and leaned a shoulder negligently against the frame. The two boys were still admiring and discussing. Jimmy started to whistle, his gaze set across the street on Whitson’s Blue Front Pharmacy. The sound drew the boys’ attention and at the same instant Jimmy turned his eyes their way. Jimmy had a winning smile, and now he used it. The nearer of the two boys smiled back. The other drew away as though to continue his journey along the street.

“Come on in, fellows, and let me show you some things,” invited Jimmy. “I’m looking for something to do.”

“We were just – looking,” murmured the nearer youth.

“Sure!” responded Jimmy heartily. “Come on inside and look. You don’t need to buy anything. Let me show you a tennis racket, maybe, or a sweater.” He drew back invitingly. There was low-voiced colloquy and the two followed hesitantly inside. Jimmy reached the back of the counter by the simple expedient of placing one hand thereon and vaulting it. That seemed to put the visitors more at their ease, and one of them laughed and said:

“Say, how much is that tennis racket in the window?”

“That one?” Jimmy reached over the curtain and brought the racket into view, as he did so reading the tag attached to the handle. “Have a slant at it,” he invited, handing it to the questioner. “That’s a nice racket. One of Proctor and Farnham’s. You won’t find another one of those in this town.” He might have added “or in this store,” but he refrained.

“Never heard of that make,” said the more reticent boy.

“What?” Jimmy was surprised, but politely so. “One of the best, if not the best. Ever see Williams play?”

“I have,” assented the first speaker, “but I didn’t notice what sort of a racket he used.”

“You have a look the next time,” advised Jimmy, wondering just what racket Williams did wield. “How do you like the feel of that? Corking balance, eh? That handle gives a nice firm grip, too. I’d like to own that myself.” This was no more than the truth, although the desire of possession was but a minute old.

“What did you say the price was?”

“Price? Oh, six-twenty-five. That’s a special price, too. You see, we have the agency for the P. and F. goods here and we’re selling very low to introduce them. That racket would sell for seven dollars in New York, I suppose.”

The boy nodded agreement. “Yes, I dare say it would.” He turned to his companion. “I like it better than Carty’s,” he said, “don’t you?”

The second youth took the implement and subjected it to a minute and sustained inspection. Finally he balanced it across a finger. Then he stepped back and swung it mightily through the air, smashing an imaginary ball through the doorway. Then he handed it back, and Jimmy heard plainly the sigh that accompanied the action. The boy nodded soberly but convincingly. “It’s a corker,” he declared.

The intending purchaser of a racket glowed. It is always satisfying to have one’s judgment upheld. He swung the racket himself slowly and looked admiringly at it. At last he laid it on the counter, and Jimmy’s heart fell. “I like it all right,” said the youth, “but that’s more than I want – more than I meant to pay for one.”

“That so? Well, you can’t get much of a racket these days for less than six dollars,” replied Jimmy. “You fellows know what the fancy ones fetch; eight, nine – more if you want to pay it.” Jimmy fondled the tightly-stretched strings admiringly. “That racket would last three hard seasons, I’ll bet, without restringing. You don’t see finer gut than that very often. I like the way it’s reënforced there, too, don’t you? That small gut strengthens the racket without making it dead.”

The two boys nodded in unison and in silence. Two pairs of eyes were following Jimmy’s pointing finger absorbedly. At last: “I can lend you a dollar,” said the reticent youth in low tones. The other turned eagerly, then shook his head.

“I oughtn’t to pay more than five,” he said virtuously but sadly. Jimmy drew a breath of relief. He was, he knew, about to make a sale, his first sale! He drew a caressing hand along the handle, from the black-and-gold diamond trade-mark and the word “Runner-Up” to the soft brown leather band at the end. The tempted one followed the gesture, thrilling to it. Jimmy looked up and spoke at the psychological moment.

“Are you high school fellows?” he asked.

“No.”

“Because, if you were, I could give you the regular high school discount of five per cent. That would make it cost you – let me see – yes, five-ninety-four.”

“We’re Mount Millard fellows,” said one of the boys.

Jimmy pricked up his ears at that. “Mount Millard! Is that so? What sort of a football team have you got over there this year?”

“Pretty good, I guess. Not so good as last year’s, maybe, but – ”

“Hope not!” laughed Jimmy. “You beat us badly last year. How do you fellows happen to be so far from home?” Mount Millard was at Warren, and Warren was some eighteen miles from Alton.

“We came over to go to the dentist’s,” the boy explained. “There isn’t a decent one in Warren.”

“Nor anything else,” mourned his companion.

“Except the school,” said Jimmy smilingly.

“Sure, the school’s all right, but there aren’t any decent stores there. It’s a hole that way.”

“Where do your crowd buy your athletic supplies, then?”

“Oh, one of the druggists keeps a few things. Generally he sends away for them.”

“How long did it take you to get over here?” Jimmy asked.

“About twenty-five minutes, I guess. We came in an automobile with a man who lives there. It takes about forty minutes by the trolley.”

“Uh-huh,” responded Jimmy thoughtfully. “Don’t see why you fellows can’t do your shopping over here.”

“Well, it isn’t worth while, I guess. We manage to get most everything we want, one way or another.”

“Rackets like this one?” asked Jimmy, smiling.

The boy shook his head, smiling, too.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” announced Jimmy. “We give a ten per cent discount to Alton fellows and I don’t see why we shouldn’t give the same to Mount Millard. You may have that racket for five dollars and sixty-two cents. All I ask is that you tell fellows where you bought it and that if they’ll take the trouble to come over here – or send over, if they like – we’ll treat them white and give them ten per cent discount from the regular price. What do you say?”

The boy hesitated, but the space of that hesitation was so brief as to be almost negligible. “I’ll take it!” he said crisply.

When they were gone, hurrying off to their appointment at the nearby dentist’s, Jimmy smiled proudly as he took out a pen and began to figure on a piece of wrapping paper. “‘b.j.t.,’” he murmured. “That’s 6, 5, 0. I was only a quarter of a dollar out of the way. All right. Now, ten per cent off that leaves – let’s see – yes, five-eighty-five.” He counted the money on the counter: a five dollar bill and sixty-two cents in change. Then he figured once more. “I owe twenty-three cents,” he muttered, and found the amount in his pocket and added it to the sum on the counter. Then he reached beneath for the cigar box and swept the proceeds into it, with an air of intense satisfaction not at all marred by the fact that the sale of the tennis racket, because he had translated the price-tag’s inscription erroneously, had cost him personally twenty-three cents!

That transaction satisfactorily completed, Jimmy went, whistling, back to the doorway to again play the rôle of the watchful spider. The tune he whistled evidently did not please Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer who had left his cage and was listlessly arranging a bunch of asparagus fern in the wax-papered bottom of a long card-board box. As he worked he shot impatient, even indignant glances at the unconcerned Jimmy, who, not realizing the pain he was inflicting on the florist’s nerves, went heedlessly and blithely on. It is just possible that, even had he realized the discomfort his melody was causing, he would have continued it, for Mr. Pulsifer didn’t stand very high with Jimmy.

Others came and looked into the window, some interestedly, some carelessly, and all ultimately passed by. The better part of an hour passed. The sunlight became very warm, and Jimmy looked longingly across the street toward the screen door of the Blue Front Pharmacy from behind which came the hiss of carbonated water. Jimmy wanted a cooling drink very much. But duty held him sternly at his post. If, he warned himself, he were to cross the street even for a scant three minutes some one might enter the store in his brief absence and, finding none to wait on him, go away again. Besides that – and Jimmy glanced at his watch – Rus Emerson had promised to run over at ten to see how he was getting on, and it certainly wouldn’t do to be missing when Rus arrived! Tiring of watching the street, Jimmy went back behind the counter. There was no chair there, which he thought showed a sad want of interest, on the part of his employers, in his comfort, but he found that it was possible to squeeze a scant portion of his anatomy against the boxes on the lowest shelf and maintain his position there by bracing his feet against the edge of the counter. He had just got himself satisfactorily settled when the doorway was darkened and an anxious voice hailed him above the tramp of hurrying footsteps.

“Where’s the tennis racket?” called Russell anxiously.

Jimmy dropped his feet and came upright very promptly. “Tennis racket?” he repeated. “The tennis racket? If you mean – ”

“I mean the one in the window,” interrupted Russell excitedly. “It’s gone!”

“Oh, that!” replied Jimmy casually. He brushed an invisible speck from a sleeve and smiled boredly. “We sold that.”