“It might be that,” answered Ira. “Anyway, I’d rather tackle Johns.”
“But you just said you found him harder!”
“That’s the reason, I guess,” laughed Ira.
“Hm. Well, you go in there now and see what you can do to Johns. Hold on! Wait till the play’s over. Just forget that Johns is Johns and see if you can’t put it over on him, Rowland.”
But Ira didn’t put it over on Johns. For the ensuing ten or twelve minutes they played each other to a standstill and neither could have fairly claimed supremacy. Coach Driscoll, watching at intervals from the side line—he had a way of absenting himself from the field for long periods before jumping in and reading the riot-act—frowned in puzzlement. “I wonder,” he muttered once, “what the result would be if Johns handed him a jolt under the chin! What that boy needs is to get warmed up to his work. He’s too calm!”
The announcement of the mass meeting appeared on the different bulletin boards on Tuesday and occasioned plenty of interest but small enthusiasm. “‘Football Mass Meeting,’ eh?” Ira heard one fellow remark in front of the board in Parkinson. “Suppose they want us to shell out. Not for mine, thank you. Let them win a game once.”
“Oh, a dollar won’t hurt us,” observed his companion carelessly. “I guess they’re pretty hard up.”
“I paid perfectly good money for a season ticket,” answered the first speaker, “and that’s enough. I haven’t had my money’s worth so far and don’t expect to. They’ll have to tie me and take it away by force if they get any dollar from me!”
“Where’s your patriotism?” jeered the other. “You’re a nice piker, you are!”