“Very much indeed. I—I find myself quite excited. Hope has been instructing me in the—er—fine points, but I fear she has found me a very stupid pupil.”
“Well, I don’t think I can give you more than a C,” laughed Hope. “And mama gets a D minus. Awhile ago she wanted to know why the tall man in the white sweater didn’t play harder!”
“Well, nobody told me he was the referee, or whatever he is,” declared Mrs. Hazard. “For my part I think I’d much prefer to be he.”
“Jim, I hope we just—just gobble them up this half,” said Hope.
“Gobble them up,” repeated Mr. Hanks. “Is that—er—a football term or do you use the phrase metaphorically?”
“She means eat ’em alive, sir,” laughed Jeffrey.
“We won’t do that,” said Jim with a shake of his head. “All we can hope to do is hold them where they are. Isn’t Gil playing a peach of a game? And Poke, too. Did you see him go through for that touchdown? He was like a human battering ram!”
“How’s Gary doing?” asked Jeffrey.
“Putting up a great game; playing a heap better than Sargent, I think. But I suppose that’s natural enough. Sargent’s captain and that always puts a chap off his game, they say. If I was that Hawthorne quarter I’d plug away at Parker and Sargent, and I’ll bet I’d make some bully gains.”