"Infants, eh!" called Joyce from the next table. "That shows you didn't see the visiting eleven."
"Why? Are they of fair size?" asked Farley.
"It took two 'buses to bring the regular eleven, besides the subs and all the howlers," retorted Joyce. "And the regular eleven, I am reliably informed, tip the scales at four tons."
"Oh, come, now, Joyce, shave off a ton or two," protested Farley.
"I won't take off more than fifty pounds, sir," retorted Joyce with mock stubbornness. "Say! The Hanniston fellows are enormous."
"Then they've run all to bones and haven't any brains," grinned Dan. "After all, we don't mind mere bulk, for intelligence wins most of the games on the gridiron."
"As to their intelligence, I can't say," admitted Joyce. "At any rate, from the glimpse that I got of the Hans, I should say that they average two years older than our men."
"Let's throw up the sponge, then," proposed Dalzell demurely. "If we can't beat the visitors what's the use of playing them? It isn't even necessary to get into togs. We can send a note to the referee, and he can award the game to Hanniston."
"Fine!" broke in Hepson scornfully.
"However, I guess we aren't going to have any cinch to-day," joined in Midshipman Waite, from another table. "I have word from outside, by the way."