“Sure. Have a peanut?” Tommy extended a sack and Bert managed to raise his hand and dip into it. “Some weather, eh? Feel like a lotus eater. Couldn’t find any lotuses--or is it lotii?--and had to get peanuts.” “Penii,” corrected Bert. Tommy grinned and tried to hit Watkins, of the Scrub, on the head with a shell. His effort fell short and he sighed. “Who’s ahead?” he inquired. “Second. Two quarts.” “Two quarts of what?” “Perspiration. Scrubs just claimed a foul on Southport, but the referee wouldn’t allow it.” “Go ahead,” said Tommy. “I’ll bite. What was the foul, Mister Johnsing?” “Southport trainer gave them sweet spirits of nitre to increase their--er--humidity. Clearly against the rules.” Tommy viewed him anxiously. “Better move back into the shade,” he advised. “Gee, I didn’t realize the sun was so hot! No scoring yet, eh?” “No. Where’s your hat, Tommy?” “Ate it.” That was Tommy’s invariable answer to the pesky question. “Help yourself.” Bert groaned and dipped again. “Do you ever stop eating?” he inquired. “Frequently. No practice for you guys to-day?” “How do you mean, no practice?” said Bert indignantly. “We were at it four hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. How come you weren’t on hand with your invaluable advice, Tommy?” “I was doing a composition and fell asleep. Woke up with my fountain pen stuck in my left ear. Dreamed I was being hung.” “I don’t get the relationship between the dream and the--whatyoucallit--actuality,” sighed Bert. “Nor I--at first. Guess the pen sticking into said ear suggested hangman’s knot. Don’t they put the knot against the left ear?” “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.” “You’re a rotten guesser, Bert. Oh, he might get in for a little old minute or _deux_.” “No, I mean for the whole _soixante_, young chap; anyway for _la plupart_.”