"After all, will he lick me?" he said, almost aloud. His heart sank, or rather it was a depression in the pit of his stomach.
"Supposing he does?" he went on, pressing his knuckles against his teeth. What a humiliation after his boast! There would be only one thing to do—leave school at once, and never, never return!
He had wandered down to the football field where the candidates for the school eleven were passing and falling on the ball under the shouted directions of the veterans. The bulky figure of Turkey Reiter, gigantic with its padded shoulders and voluminous sweater, hove into view, and the tackle's rumbling voice cried out:
"Hi there, old Sockarooster, this won't do! Keep a-laughin'; keep cheerful; tumble down here and shag for me."
Lovely Mead went gratefully to fetch the balls that Turkey booted, far down the field, to the waiting halfbacks.
"Feeling a bit serious, eh?" said Turkey.
"Well——"
"Sure you are. That's nothing. Don't let the Gutter Pup see it, though. He's got to believe we are holding you in, chaining you up, keepin' you under the bars, 'cause you're barking to get at him. Savvy? Chuck in a bluff, old sport, and—keep cheerful. Better now?"
"Yes, thank you," said Lovely, who was in nowise suffering from an excess of hilarity.