“_Tres bien, cher ivorie solide._ What happened in the first half when those mighty heroes held forth? They pushed Banning all over the field, _non_? And scored at will, did they not? Listen, you big boob; if the first-string guys had played through the game the score would have been something like twenty-five to a goose-egg. We wouldn’t have had even those miserable _deux_ points!” This heresy brought forth, a groan of derision. “Tommy, you’re a nut!” proclaimed Harry. “You just like to hear yourself talk. I suppose Lovell is a better quarter-back than Ted Ball and Tifton is a better guard than Jonas Lowe! You’re all wet, son!” “Well,” answered Tommy judicially, “Jonah Slow may still have a slight edge on Tif, but Tif’s coming along pretty fast. As for Ted Ball, he’s the best quarter we’ve had in three years, but you’ve got to have more than a quarter-back to make a football team. Even without Ball the backfield that played in the last half was far better than the first combination. Look at Savell! There’s a clever lad for you. If he isn’t on the ‘big time’ before I’m much older I’ll eat my hat.” “I don’t believe you’ve got one,” said Harry. “Savell was all right, but Storer’s a heap better. Say, if the second and third bunch are so much better, why doesn’t Johnny scrap the first and put them in?” “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did eventually,” answered Tommy, helping himself to half of a neighbor’s biscuit. “After to-day’s game he’s probably thinking of it more than ever. Of course he’s likely to keep three or four of the first-string crowd. They aren’t all rotten. Ted Ball and Billy Haines and Joe Tate and, of course, Captain Jonas, would probably stick. Maybe another.” “You’re a crazy coot, Tommy!” “_Mille remerciements._ I may be crazy, but I’m not foolish. You fellows don’t know a thing about football, and I do. That’s why you find my remarks incomprehensible.” “Where’d you get your football knowledge?” jeered one of his audience. “Taking tickets?” “That’s all right, you piece of cheese rind,” replied Tommy sweetly. “Perhaps between the lot of you you can tell me who the lad is that’ll be doing most of the scoring for us by the end of the season. Perhaps you can, and then _encore_ perhaps you can’t!” “Nip Storer.” “Jim Galvin.” “He doesn’t have to be on the first line-up just now,” said Tommy. “He means Fitz Savell,” suggested one. Tommy shook his head sadly. “I didn’t think you could,” he murmured. “Well, who is he?” demanded Harry, with a wink for the table at large. “Any one we’ve ever heard of?” “I can’t say whether you’ve heard of him, Harry. His name’s Hollins.” “Hollins! You mean Bert Hollins?” “_Absolument._” “Why, that fellow hasn’t--isn’t--”