questioning his sincerity. Asa liked to see anyone squirm, and often did and said things just for that privilege. His companions had long ago declared that he was cut out for a surgeon—or a butcher, like his father.
"Once for all, do you mean that?" hissed the enraged boy, laying a quivering hand on his comrade's arm.
"I certainly do. He's got the Indian sign on you, Tony, for fair. Mark my words, when I predict that, unless something unusual happens between now and next Saturday, when we play Clifford, Ralph West is going to take your place at left half-back!"
The other fairly glared at him.
"Well, you're awful plain about it, Asa," he muttered.
"You told me to be, and I'm giving you my honest opinion. But, all the same now, I don't think this disaster will happen," Asa added, with a grin at the other.
"Oh, you don't, eh? What's going to prevent it?" demanded Tony.
"You are, unless I'm mighty much mistaken in your make-up," said the other boy, promptly. "Remember what we agreed to do about that Bones Shadduck, for getting us knocked down with that measly old Delta Pi business? Well, there's a pair of 'em now!"
