“I say,” exclaimed Hugh, “you’re spoofin’, what?”
“Nary a spoof, Duke,” replied Guy. “Getting your mad up is what does the business. I don’t mean you’re to show it or froth at the mouth, you understand, but you want to have it inside you. Then when your chance comes you bust out and something happens.”
“Really?” marveled Hugh. “I’ve always thought quite the contrary. It seems to me, you know, that a chap who keeps his temper is the one who can do the best.”
“Sure! I said that. Have a temper, but keep it! Am I right, Pop?”
“Yes, I think so. I know that when a fellow plays football he has to sort of seethe inside before he can really do much.”
“Did you ever seethe?” asked Nick incredulously.
“I’ve been mad enough to bite,” said Pop, smiling. “Haven’t you?”
“Me? Great Scott, yes! But you’re such a sleepy, unemotional beggar, Pop, that I didn’t suppose you ever felt that way. Bert and I, now, being sort of temperamental——”
“I always get mad,” confessed Bert, “the first time a fellow tackles me or gives me a jolt. I’ve got a rotten temper, anyway.”
“Good reason to play football, then,” said Pop. “Football’s a fine thing for temper.”