“Honest, I forget. Seems, to me, though, the last time I was hung it was under my chin, but maybe it slipped. Here goes for a touchdown.”
“Bet you!”
“You’re on for a bag of peanuts.”
Bert lost, for Southport got her back up and selfishly refused to let the Alton Scrub left tackle through the center, although all the latter asked was a scant two yards. After Southport had punted from behind her goal line the whistle blew, faintly as though exhausted, and the half was at an end. The shadow of the roof crept over the front of the stand and Bert perked up a bit.
“How are you betting on the Kenly game, Tommy?” he asked. “Still bearish?”
“No, and never was. I said right along that we’d beat ’em if Johnny Cade tumbled to himself and you fellows humped yourselves a bit. We’ll win by a couple of scores next week.”
“What? I thought you were predicting total ruination, Tommy. What’s changed the colossal mind?”
“Well, for one thing Johnny went and got rid of a lot of stiffs like Tate and Meecham and your babyhood friend, Chick Burton.”
“Wrong, Tommy. Chick’s got a good chance to play, I guess.”