“Mighty little,” was the surprised answer.
“But you do know something? You’ve played the game, haven’t you?”
“Not much.”
“That’s an admission that you’ve played it some. We need you to fill a hole in the line—just for this practice game, you understand. Come on.”
“I reckon you’ll have to excuse me, sir,” said Grant. “I don’t believe I’ll play football.”
“This isn’t a regular game; it’s practice. You’ve got a little patriotism, haven’t you? You’ve got some interest in your school and your school team, I hope? It won’t hurt you to practice. Come, we haven’t any time to lose before it gets dark.”
But the boy on the seats shook his head. “I thank you for the invite, but I allow I’d better keep out of it. You’ll certain have to get some one else.”
Barker’s cold, irritating laugh sounded at Winton’s shoulder. “He’s afraid! He hasn’t even got sand enough to take part in a practice game.”
“You’re a——”
Rod Grant cut himself short with the third word trembling on his lips. Involuntarily he had started up and was coming down over the seats.