"I am just considering the average of chances," Darrin returned. "Danny boy, sometimes the Navy wins, but most of the games of past years have gone to the Army. So the chances are that we'll be beaten this year."
"Not if I have to die on the line to stop it!" glowed Dalzell at red heat.
"Maybe you won't even get on the Navy line; perhaps I won't, either,
Danny boy. But you know we saw by the "Army and Navy Journal" that
Prescott and Holmes are playing on the West Point eleven this year."
"Holmes isn't necessarily such a much, is he?" flared Dan.
"Greg Holmes is a pretty handy man on the football field," retorted Darrin warmly. "None ought to know that better than we, after we've seen Holmes pull out so many victories for the old High School team. Of course, Prescott is the better player, but Holmes can back him up to amazing advantage."
"Didn't we play about as good a game as that pair?" Dalzell demanded.
"I don't know," Dave answered thoughtfully. "Perhaps not quite as good a game. You see, in the old High School days, Dick Prescott used to lead and I often backed up his plays. So one could hardly compare us."
"If you're in such a blue funk over the Navy's chances, you'd better keep off the line-up," muttered Midshipman Dalzell.
"Oh, I'm in no funk," returned Darrin, smiling. "However, I'm not going to be betrayed into any bragging until we've wiped the field up with the Army—if we can."
Rap-tap! came on the door.