“One thing I wanted to ask you,” Johnny said after a moment of silent marching. “What would happen if you pumped a quantity of liquid air into a football?”
“Football would get mighty cold, nearly freezing, perhaps worse.”
“And then?”
“Then it would expand until it burst. You can’t confine liquid air, at least not in any ordinary way.”
“That,” said Johnny, “was just what I suspected. Those fellows played a trick on us. A player kicked the football into the bleachers, one of the fans substituted another ball he’d just given a shot of liquid air.”
“Strange sort of thing to do,” Donald’s brow wrinkled. “Tell me about it.”
Johnny did tell him about that football game and the bursting ball.
“Queer sense of humor,” was Donald’s comment. “Lost them the game, didn’t it?”
“At least they lost it,” Johnny chuckled. “Hope there’ll be no monkey shines tomorrow. Guess there won’t be. Good clean, hard-fighting crowd, that Naperville team. But they’ve got to take a licking. And they will if only the old Doc will let Kentucky play.”
“Here’s hoping!” said Donald. “And here we are at the meadow. There’s Ballard coming over the ridge. You can’t stop that boy. He’s a great fellow. My grandfather is very fond of him. You’re doing wonders for him, Johnny. Got to be getting back. Here’s luck for tomorrow!” The young scientist gripped Johnny’s hand. Then he was away.