"Do you really think that will happen?" demanded Darrin eagerly.
"Do you really believe that dear old Dick will get out of that
Coventry and back on the Army eleven?"
"Well," returned Midshipman Dalzell soberly, "I'll venture a prediction. If you don't get a brace on your playing soon, then it'll be regular Navy luck for Prescott to come to Philadelphia and put on his togs. Then the soldiers will drag us down the field to the tune of 46 to 2."
"I'd sooner he killed on the field than see that happen!" cried
Midshipman Dave, his eyes flashing.
"Then don't let it happen! You're the only star on our team, Dave, that isn't up to the mark. If we lose to the Army, this year, Prescott or no Prescott, it will be your fault, Dave Darrin. You're not one of our weak spots, really but you're not as strong as you ought to be and can be if you'll only brace."
"Brace!" quivered Dave. "Won't I, though?"
"Good! Just stick to that."
"Dan!" Darrin halted his chum before a store where dry goods and notions were sold. "Let's go in here——-"
"What, for?" Midshipman Dalzell asked in astonishment.
"I want to make a purchase," replied Dave soberly. "Danny boy, I'm going to buy you a hat pin—-one at least ten inches long. You're to slip it in, somewhere in your togs. When you catch me lagging—-practice or game—-just jab that hat pin into me as far as you can send it."
"Bosh!" retorted Dan impatiently. "Come along."