"Huh!" Tom regarded his roommate doubtfully. Then he grinned. "It's going to be fifty-fifty, I guess. I'm not the only funny one in this room."
"Good lad," approved Billy.
They talked football for a while and Billy told about last year and how Wolcott had turned the tables in the last quarter of the big game and turned a Wyndham victory into a devastating defeat. "We had them all the way until the tag end of that period. We'd scored in the first and second, and booted a goal each time. It was all over but the shouting, you might have thought, for 14 to 3—they'd snitched a field-goal in the third—was good enough for any one, and all we had to do was hold them for the rest of the game. Then they put this chap Grosfawk in at end. No one had ever heard of him before around here. Our scouts didn't even remember his name. They had the ball down on their thirty, and there was less than five minutes of the game left. Their inside half, Cummins, faked a kick and tossed to this Grosfawk chap, who had managed to sneak pretty well across the field. It wasn't an awfully long throw, and he made it slow and sure. Grosfawk was just about even with the scrimmage line when he caught and when we'd nailed him he was three yards from our goal-line. He'd run about sixty-five yards, and there wasn't a fellow on our team who could lay claim to having touched him! Dodge? That boy invented it! And he can run like a jack rabbit. He's a wonder, and why Wolcott didn't find it out before that game is more than I know!"
