“It isn’t, though,” answered Joe, shaking his head. “And those three weeks will be gone before you know it, too. It’s funny about that. One day you’re in the middle of the season, and then, seems like it was the next day, you wake up and the Big Game’s right on top of you! It—it sort of scares you, too!”
“Say, Joe, what’s the real dope on Kenly this year, anyway?” asked Bob thoughtfully.
Joe shrugged. “You know as much as I do. She’s had about an average season, I guess. She’s played five games, one more than we have, and has lost two, won two and tied the other. You can’t tell much about Kenly until along toward the end of the season, any more than you can about us. Last year she didn’t look very good until the Lorimer game. Then she walked all over Lorimer to the tune of twenty-something to nothing. That was the week before we played her, you know, and it made us sit up and take notice. But taking notice didn’t do us much good, for she walloped us when our turn came.”
“The papers speak pretty well of her backs,” observed Cal. “She has one fellow, I forget his name—”
“Puckhaber?” asked Joe.
“That’s it, Puckhaber! Some name, I’ll say! He’s good, isn’t he?”
“He’s all right, but he wasn’t anything remarkable last fall. We stopped him as well as we stopped any of her backs. She’s got a good man in Timmons, though, her left end. He’ll bear watching, fellows. Well, it’s nine-thirty, Bob. Time to turn in. This may be your last night in the old school, son: better make the most of it!”