on the outskirts, a shrinking, unnoticed, almost apologetic figure.
The Northfield cheer came presumptuously from the few Northfield throats.
"I guess it's our ball, isn't it?" Baffin asked.
Perry surveyed the field. "Of course it's our ball. There's Hammond crouched behind the center ready to take the pass. Where's your eyes?"
"Yes; our ball," Baffin said with more confidence. "Not much chance to score again, I guess."
"Lots of chance," said Perry, "with a corking good team like ours."
"Yes, I guess there is," Baffin agreed. He never argued his opinion, but quickly ran to cover and surrendered. The school—those who observed him at all—called him "Me, too, Johnnie."
The team did score again, Hammond carrying the ball around the end on a quarterback run.
"Didn't I tell you?" Perry cried, and made note of the length of the run on a slip of paper. A minute later the game was over. Even as the team cheered its rivals, even as the players broke and ran for the dressing room, Perry gathered up the sweaters and with full and overflowing arms staggered after.
