“Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility. Any one well acquainted with him—Pill, for instance—would have known that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more about it than he does.”
“Quit your kidding,” growled Hank.
“He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t answer three questions I can put to him.”
“What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously.
“Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a back.”
“Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,” protested Hank. “There are too many of them!”
“Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.”
“All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out. First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen if you made the catch?”
“I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting a snag.