Mr. Tincup stares at the human cyclone, his mouth so wide open that you can see all the gold in his teeth.
"Come here!" he shouts, waving his arms.
"I'm sorry!" calls "Butter Fingers," "We didn't mean to do what we did but this is our ball and we got a right to it!"
"You've got no right to be playing football!" raves Mr. Tincup, beginning to shiver now as the air's kind of cold. "And I'm going to see that you don't play football hereafter!"
"Gee!" I says to "Butter Fingers," when we've beat it. "I don't know as that was such a bright stunt—your rescuing that pigskin. We might better have let old Tincup have it. Now he's going to raise a rumpus for sure! He'll probably go to the board."
"Butter Fingers" gives me the laugh.
"Make your pulse behave!" he says. "Everybody knows Mr. Tincup's a great guy to holler. He won't get any further than his echo. Say—I don't hear you mentioning anything about that pickup I made. Speak up, brother! Can't you recognize a masterpiece?"
"Your masterpiece," I answers, "Wasn't the pickup. It was hitting Mr. Tincup on the bean!"
"Just the same," argues "Butter Fingers," "if the old boy'd only had some football experience I'd never have gotten away with the ball. That only goes to show the value of...!"
"Oh, dry up!" I orders. "You're getting unbalanced on that subject...!"