"Not exactly," Farley answered, with a slight flush. "But it's a big thing to play on the Navy's fighting eleven. It seems almost too big a responsibility for any but a demi-god."
"Demi-gods don't play football," jeered Dan. "They're nothing but idols, anyway, and they're two thousand years out of date. What we want on the Navy line is real human flesh and blood."
"There'll be blood on the doorstep of the moon if the Army carries things away from us this year," predicted Page mournfully.
"Well, all we can do is our best," declared Dave. "We'll do that, too, and do it mightily. Wow! What's that?"
Ta-ra-ra-ta-ra-ta! sounded musically in the corridors.
"Supper formation, by Jove!" gasped Dan.
Farley and Page fled without a word. Soon the "decks" of Bancroft Hall swarmed with young life. Then, outside, to seaward, the brigade fell in by companies.
Military commands rang out briskly, roll was called, reports made and the brigade marched in to supper.
What a joyous, noisy affair it was. Some license in the way of boisterousness was allowed this evening, and most of the young men took full advantage of the fact.
Swat! A slice of bread, soaked in a glass of water and kneaded into a soppy ball, struck Dalzell full in the back of the neck, plastering his collar and sending a sticky mess down his spine.