"Don't mention it! Don't even think of it! Your old ma—I mean your father might read your thoughts." I forced a grin named Santa Claus, because I didn't believe in it myself. "Cheer up, Diane. Lancelot will find a way out of this trouble."
"He will?" she said hopefully. "You think he will, Sparks?"
"He always does," I told her. I squared myself with Kid Conscience by muttering under my breath, "Always—except this time."
So finally here we were, a baker's dozen of us, in the radio turret on the fateful day. Twelve of us were scowling, and me—I was number thirteen—I was sweating like an ice-box in the Sahara. Because it was the day, and darn near the hour, of the Big Game back on Earth—and my radio still was as talkative as a deaf-mute in a vacuum.
Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Wilson, the third officer, and Billings and—oh, shucks!—every one of us who had studied at either of the two academies. And Cap Hanson was there. He was very much there. He was howling ghastly threats in my ears, the mildest of which was that if I didn't have the radio repaired within the next minute, or maybe less, he'd personally tattoo the word "Scoundrel" on my forehead with a riveting machine.
I squawked, "Good golly, I'm doing the best I can! Don't you think I want to hear this game as much as you do? Maybe more. Because the Wranglers are going to beat the bejeepers out of you Rocketeers today, anyhow."
Cap raged, "What's that?" but it took some of the blast out of his tubes, because he knew it was true. The Spaceways Academy team was strongly favored over the eleven from the N.R.I., having so far run through an undefeated season while the Rocketeers had lost to Army and Notre Dame and been tied by Yale. "What's that? Why, last year—"
"That," Lieutenant Dick Todd taunted him, grinning, "was last year, Skipper. You beat us then, yes. But this year the shoe's on the other foot."
"Well, anyhow," howled the Old Man, "my shoe's goin' to be you-know-where, Sparks, if you don't get that damn radio talkin'."