cted it knocks the nozzle
of the hose out of his hands and before anybody can say "Ask me
another!" the hose squirms around like a snake and soaks him from head
to foot. Mr. Tincup begins yelling like he's in the middle of the
ocean, going down for the last time. It takes him a couple of seconds
to get on to what's hit him, but the minute he sees the football lying
on the lawn he lets out a bellow of rage and turns to us, shaking his
fist.

"All right, young gentlemen!" he snorts. "That's the end of your ball
... and it's the end of _you_, for that matter!"

It may be the end of us but it's not the end of our ball so far as
"Butter Fingers" is concerned. He's over the fence in a jiffy and
streaking for the pigskin as though he's on a football field. Mr.
Tincup doesn't suspect any opposition on picking up what "Butter
Fingers" regards as a free ball. He's too dripping wet and ripping mad
to suspect anything. As he stoops down to pick up the ball which is
also wet, it slips out of his fingers. To make matters worse he kicks
it accidently with his foot and it rolls along in front of him. It's
right then that "Butter Fingers" arrives. He takes a running dive
across the wet lawn, skids right under Mr. Tincup's nose, curls himself
around the pigskin, bounces up on his feet and keeps on going till he
comes to the fence which he hurdles.

Mr. Tincup stares at the human cyclone, his mouth so wide open that you
can see all the gold in his teeth.

"Come here!" he shouts, waving his arms.

"I'm sorry!" calls "Butter Fingers," "We didn't mean to do what we did
but this is our ball and we got a right to it!"

"You've got no right to be playing football!" raves Mr. Tincup,
beginning to shiver now as the air's kind of cold. "And I'm going to
see that you don't play football hereafter!"

"Gee!" I says to "Butter Fingers," when we've beat it. "I don't know
as that was such a bright stunt--your rescuing that pigskin. We might
better have let old Tincup have it. Now he's going to raise a rumpus
for sure! He'll probably go to the board."

"Butter Fingers" gives me the laugh.

"Make your pulse behave!" he says. "Everybody knows Mr. Tincup's a
great guy to holler. He won't get any further than his echo. Say--I
don't hear you mentioning anything about that pickup I made. Speak up,
brother! Can't you recognize a masterpiece?"

"Your masterpiece," I answers, "Wasn't the pickup. It was hitting Mr.
Tincup on the b