“It wouldn’t be murder,” said Chub Tuttle, carelessly spilling peanuts from his pocket as he flung his coat aside; “it would be a noble deed for the general public good. No jury would ever convict a feller for killing Coop in a frenzied moment, following one of his alleged witticisms.”
“The assassin sure would escape on the plea of temporary insanity,” laughed Rodney Grant.
“I tell yeou, fellers, we’ve got to play some if we trim Barville,” said Crane. “I’ve got it straight from Len Roberts that they’re goin’ to chaw us up.”
“In the name of a good old English poet, let them Chaucer,” snickered Cooper, flinging himself into a defensive attitude. “Come on, you base scoundrels; I defy you.”
“Roberts is a big wind-bag,” was the opinion of Jack Nelson. “He’s always blowing about what Barville is going to do.”
“But they’ve got a coach,” said Crane. “Last year we had one, but this season, without Roger Eliot to raise the spondulicks, we couldn’t git one. They’ve got some new players, too, that are said to be rippers. I tell yeou, boys, I’m worried.”
“It’s just as bad to worry as it is to be overconfident,” said Ben Stone, the captain of the eleven, appearing among them. “It’s my opinion they’ve been trying to get our goat by setting afloat a lot of hot air about the strength of their team and their wonderful new players. If we go onto the field feeling a bit shy of them, which is doubtless what they want, they will try to get the jump on us at the start. But we’re not going to let them work that trick. Has anyone seen Sage? I wonder where he is.”
Fred Sage, who was usually one of the first to be on hand, had not arrived, and when, a short time later, he still remained absent, the captain’s wonderment took on a touch of anxiety.
“Here, Hooker,” he called to Roy, who, as a substitute, was getting into his armor, “do you know anything about Sage? He isn’t around.”
“I’ve been wondering where he was,” confessed Hooker. “I haven’t seen him since I left him in front of his house this forenoon.”