“Oh, thunder,” growled Hank disgustedly, “no one’s expected to know all the kinks! And, look here, you fellows, what was wrong with that one about the forward-pass into the end zone? I was inside and the ball was inside and I made the catch. I’ll bet I answered that one right!” “No, you didn’t, Hank,” laughed Ted. “Tommy said you had one foot on the line. Rules say you mustn’t do it, see? On or over, either one, queers you, Hank.” “That’s crazy! I’ll bet the rest of you didn’t know it, either! Gee, I’d like to ask you guys a few!” “Go ahead,” advised Pill. “Show ’em up, Hank.” Hank looked grim for a moment, and it was plainly to be seen that he was doing some hard thinking. Then, as expectant silence prolonged itself, a slow grin overspread his face and he shook his head. “No use,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t think of any!” “Well, it looks to me as though Tommy had won his point,” said Anstruther. “So it behooves us to listen respectfully to his pleasant criticisms of the Team. Go ahead, Tommy, and say your piece.” Tommy shrugged. “I’ve said it. I said this year’s team was the punkest I’ve seen here, and I say it again.” “Well, you’ve seen quite a few,” remarked Chick, with a wink at Bert. “How many years have you been here now, anyway, Tommy? This your fourth or fifth?” “Third,” replied Tommy untroubledly amidst the laughter. “I saw last year’s team and the team before that, and I’m seeing this thing you’ve got here now, and I say it ain’t so good, fellows. Mind you, I’m saying this for your benefit, not because I want to crab.” “Oh, no, you never crab, Tommy!” said Pill. “What,” asked Coles in a patient voice, “strikes you as being the principal--ah--weakness?” “The players,” replied Tommy promptly, and allowed himself a wicked grin. A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?” “Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.” “Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!” Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.” Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!” “Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely. “So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed little fat rotter--” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed. “Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”