"I'd give good money, if I had it," quoth Turner, "to have to-morrow's game over and won." Half a dozen boys were gathered in the Pierson Hall rooms, and the talk was on the Exeter game which was to be played on the morrow.
"Why so timid?" spoke up the Codfish, who was planning another assault on the News columns.
"This Exeter team is good, awfully good. Did you see what they did to Hotchkiss last week?"
"Sure—16 to 0."
"And what was our score against Hotchkiss?"
"Nothing to 6."
"Figuring at that rate it will be an interesting occasion for us to-morrow afternoon," said Frank Armstrong gloomily. "But then," more cheerfully, "you can never tell what will happen in football. If our friend James Turner could get away on one of his dashing runs, right early in the game, it might be a help."
"I haven't been dashing much lately," said Turner. "My dashing has been chiefly on the ground."
"The worm may turn," suggested Butcher Brown, a broad-shouldered and loosely built young chap who played a tackle position on the second Freshman eleven, and who lived on the same floor in Pierson, at the end of the corridor.
"Speaking of worms," observed the Codfish, "did you notice the News this morning?"