stically than
truthfully. Turner nodded.

"That's good," he said approvingly. "Go easy with it, old man, and don't
take chances. Conklin says it's only a bruise, but knees are funny
things. You don't want to get water on it. We need you too much, Thayer.
Come on down to the bench."

"Thanks, but I'm waiting for Byrd. Did Conklin say how long I'd be out?"

"No, but you needn't worry, I guess. A couple of days more will put you
all right." Turner nodded and hurried back to where "Boots" was making
the line-up. When the squad took the field Clint saw that Cupples had
taken his place at right tackle and that Robbins was at left. This, he
reflected with some satisfaction, was doubtless because Robbins was not
quite so good as he, Clint, and the left of the 'varsity line was the
strongest. Hinton's piping voice sang the signals and the squad,
followed by the substitutes, began its journeys up and down the
gridiron. Amy joined Clint presently, still lugging his pewter trophy,
and the two boys leaned back against the seat behind them and looked on.
Clint, when the squad was near enough for him to hear the signal,
translated for Amy's benefit, as: "Right half outside of left guard.
Watch it!" or "Here's a forward to Turner, Amy. There he goes! Missed
it, though. That was a punk throw of Martin's."

"It's all well enough for you fellows to pretend that you know what's
going to happen when the quarter-back shouts a lot of numbers to you,"
observed Amy, hugging his knees and exposing a startling view of
crushed-raspberry socks, "but I'm too old a bird--no pun intended this
time--to be caught. Besides, I played once for a couple of weeks, and I
know that signals didn't mean anything to me."

"Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint.

"The quarter-back just bawls out whatever comes into his head and then
he tosses the ball to whichever chap looks as if he was wide enough
awake to catch it and that chap makes a break at the line wherever he
happens to think he can get through," continued Amy convincedly. "All
this stuff about signals is rot. Now we'll see. Where's this
play going?"

Clint listened to the signal. "Full-back straight ahead through centre,"
he said.

"What did I tell you?" Amy turned in triumph. Clint laughed.

"Otis got the signal wrong," he explained, "and crossed in front of
Martin."

"Oh, certainly! Yes, indeed!" agreed Amy with deep sarcasm. "Honest,
Clint, I think you really believe that