dies. He's made the
air blue at many board meetings, voicing his protest against
continuance of the sport as an athletic activity at Burden High but
he's never quite been able to get a majority vote against it. Just the
same his attitude has stirred up considerable feeling and hasn't
exactly made him popular with the boys.

"What Tincup needs is a dose of second childhood," "Butter Fingers"
prescribes one day. "He evidently didn't have any the first time!"

Mr. Tincup's home is right on our way to school, a big old-fashioned
house that stands on a corner of the street, surrounded by a high
picket fence. We often see the anti-footballist's three year old son
hanging to the fence and peeking out as though he'd like to investigate
the outer world.

"Look at the poor kid," points out Butter Fingers as we're passing one
afternoon. "They keep him as spic and span as a children's
advertisement. Maxwell Tincup, Junior's sure going to be a chip off
the old block if the old block has anything to say about it! I'll bet
some day he takes the tiddly-winks championship of South America!"

"Are you sure Mr. Tincup won't consider that too strenuous?" I asks,
innocent like.

"Butter Fingers" grins and shrugs his shoulders.

It's not until the Monday before the big game of the year with Edgewood
that the something happens which changes the complexion of the whole
situation and brings Mr. Tincup's objection to football to a boil's
head.

"Butter Fingers" and me are coming back from the athletic field after
an extra hard workout. I have a football and we're tossing it back and
forth as we're trotting down the sidewalk, me about fifty feet ahead of
"Butter Fingers" so we can have plenty of distance to pass. As we cut
across the corner toward Tincup's house I spot him out in the yard,
washing his front porch off with the stream from the garden hose.
"Hello!" says I to myself, "Mr. Tincup's getting industrious in his old
age!"

Just then "Butter Fingers" lets loose an extra long throw. I can see
at a glance that the ball's going to be over my head unless I can take
it on the jump. Nope! I miss it by three feet, banging up against Mr.
Tincup's front fence trying to pull it down.

"Look out!" I yells when I see what's going to happen.

If "Butter Fingers" had took aim he couldn't have made a squarer hit.
The pigskin spirals over the fence and plunks Mr. Maxwell Tincup smack
on the side of the head. The blow's so unexpe