onkey between the two bundles of
hay. I wouldn't know which to nibble at first."

"Of course," he went on, "they're so different that it's hard to compare
them. Both of them demand every bit of speed and nerve a fellow has, if
he plays them right. And a bonehead can't make good in either. There are
lots of times in each game when a man has to think like lightning. As
for courage, it's about a stand off. With three men on bases in the
ninth, nobody out, and only one run needed to win, it's a sure enough
test of pluck for either nine. But it needs just as much for a losing
eleven to buck its way up the field and carry the ball over the goal
line, when there's only three minutes left of playing time. Both games
take out of a fellow all there is in him. As for brute strength, there's
no doubt that football makes the greater demand. But when it comes to
saying which I prefer, I'm up a tree. I'd rather play either one than
eat."

"How happy could I be with either, were 'tother dear charmer away,"
laughed Dick.

"Well," remarked Tom, "it's lucky that they come at different seasons so
that we can play both. But when you speak of 'brute' strength, Bert,
you're giving 'aid and comfort' to the enemies of football. That's just
the point they make. It's so 'awfully brutal'," he mimicked, in a high
falsetto voice.

"Nonsense," retorted Bert. "Of course, no fellow can be a 'perfect lady'
and play the game. Even a militant suffragette might find it too rough.
There are plenty of hard knocks to be taken and given. It's no game for
prigs or dudes. But for healthy, strong young fellows with good red
blood in their veins, there's no finer game in the world to develop
pluck and determination and self-control and all the other qualities
that make a man successful in life. He has to keep himself in
first-class physical condition, and cut out all booze and dissipation.
He must learn to keep his temper, under great provocation. He must
forget his selfish interests for the good of the team. And above all he
has to fight, fight, fight,--fight to the last minute, fight to the last
ditch, fight to the last ounce. It's a case of 'the Old Guard dies, but
never surrenders.' He's like old General Couch at the battle of Kenesaw
Mountain, who, when Sherman asked him if he could hold out a little
longer, sent back word that 'he'd lost one eye and a piece of his ear,
but he could lick all Hades yet.'"

"Hear, hear," cried Tom. "Listen, ladies and gen