Rolling the pigskin in front of him, he dove for it, pouncing on it as a beagle on a rabbit.
"Now, Piggy, let her go!"
Moore, who loved his tailor-suit with the pride and affection which a father bestows only on the firstborn, desperately essayed to secure the pigskin with the minimum of danger possible.
A shriek of derision burst forth.
"No, my dear Miss Moore, I did not ask you to lie down and pillow your head upon it," said Jock in disgust. "That is not what is called falling on the ball. Go at it like a demon; chew it up, mangle it! Here, Morning Glory," he added, turning to a scrubby little urchin who was gambolling about, "take this young lady and show her how it's done."
To Piggy's culminating mortification, the diminutive Morning Glory, with a contemptuous sneer, began to instruct him in the new art, with a rattling fire of insults which drew shrieks of laughter from the squad.
"Now then, old ice-wagon—get your nose in it."
"Don't spare the daisies, dearest."
"Jump, you Indian, jump!"
"Ah, watch me—like this."