“What sort of a game?” responded Kewpie. “They play hard, that’s the way they play! And every time they tackle Pope, they’ll tackle him so he’ll know it. And every time he hits the line, there’ll be one of those red-legs waiting for him. Oh, they don’t play dirty, if you mean that; but they don’t let any chances slip, believe me!”
“It sounds sort of off color to me, though,” Laurie objected. “How are you going to put a fellow out of the game if you don’t slug or do something like that?”
Kewpie smiled knowingly. “My son,” he said, “if I start after you and run you around the dormitory about twenty times—”
Ned, in spite of his down-heartedness, snickered at the picture evolved, and Kewpie grinned.
“Well, suppose some one else did, then. Anyhow, after he’d done it about a couple of dozen times, you’d be all in, wouldn’t you? He wouldn’t have to kick you or knock you down or anything, would he? Well, that’s what I mean. That’s the way they’ll go after Pope. They’ll tire him out. You understand. And every time they tackle him, they’ll tackle him good and hard. Well, suppose Pope does go out, and there’s a chance for a field goal, as there’s likely to be. Who will Pinky put in? Why, Nid, of course! Who else is there? Brattle can’t kick one goal in six. No more can Deering. What do you think Mulford’s been nursing Nid all the season for?”
“Next year?” said Laurie, questioningly.
“Sure—and this year, too. You watch and see. I’d like to bet you that Nid’ll have a goal to kick to-morrow—yes, and that he’ll kick it, too!”
“Don’t!” groaned Ned. “I never could do it!”
“Well,” laughed Laurie, “I don’t bet for money, Kewpie, but I tell you what I’ll do. If Ned kicks a goal to-morrow, I’ll take you over to the Widow’s, and I’ll buy you all the cream-puffs you can eat at one sitting!”
“It’s a go!” cried Kewpie. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll do it to you!”