ean!"

"Just the same," argues "Butter Fingers," "if the old boy'd only had
some football experience I'd never have gotten away with the ball.
That only goes to show the value of...!"

"Oh, dry up!" I orders. "You're getting unbalanced on that subject...!"

It isn't until the next morning that we get the glad tidings of bad
news. Ain't it the truth that everyone's glad to be the first to tell
you something sad? And what do you suppose has happened?

That peeved Mr. Tincup has stirred up a special called meeting of the
school board and has gone and gotten us suspended from the team! He's
raised a terrific rumpus about football in general and has tried to get
the big game of the year with Edgewood canceled but he can't get away
with that. He's influential enough to put a crimp in the team, though,
and to put a crimp in us in particular, by getting the board to have us
kicked off the eleven just when we're needed most. I hope you won't
think I'm handing myself bouquets on purpose but I'm the best backfield
man the team's got and I've already told you how hot "Butter Fingers"
is as an end. Are we sore? Are we sick? So is most everyone else but
what good does that do 'em? The students get out a petition asking for
the school board to meet again and reconsider the matter but the school
board pays about as much attention as a deaf ear.

"We're sunk all right," I says to "Butter Fingers" in the middle of the
week. "Leave it to Tincup to see that we don't play Saturday! He's
got it in for us for fair! And we're going to be treated to the
_exquisite pleasure_ of sitting on the sidelines and seeing our team
take a nice trimming from Edgewood!"

"Edgewood's going to be plenty tough!" admits "Butter Fingers,"
soberly. "We wouldn't have been any too strong with our best line-up
against 'em. Wouldn't this give you a pain? Especially after all the
extra work we've put in so's we'd be in tip top shape for that game!"

"Don't cry on _my_ shoulder," I replies, "I got tears enough of my own!"

Saturday comes. It's the one day in the fall that the almanac gets
absolutely right. There's a precipitous rain falling. The weather
sort of reflects our gloom.

"It's just the kind of a day I've been dreaming about," moans "Butter
Fingers," "There's bound to be plenty of fumbles. I ought to be in
there to get 'em!"

"Tell that to Tincup!" I answers.

By noon a wind springs up and the clouds lift a little. The downpou