this Fall. The Springdale backs are a fast and clever lot and have scoring power. The team has been finely coached and knows a lot of football. They have good punters over there, too; no better than ours, I think, but not to be despised. There's one thing they haven't got, fellows, and that's a man to kick field-goals!"
Cheers and shouts of "Brent! Brent! A-ay, Brent!" broke into the discourse, and Morris, sitting in the front row, studied his scarred hands attentively and hid the look in his eyes.
"I want to prophesy, fellows," continued Dick, "that if we get the ball inside the Springdale fifteen-yard line we'll score!"
"I'm not saying how we'll score," he added with a smile when he could go on, "but we'll score!"
Cheers and laughter mingled, and some one increased the latter by shouting: "Every little three-spot counts, old man!"
"I guess that's all I have to say," ended Dick. "You've got the team. All you've got to do is to be back of it every minute and let the other fellow see that you're back of it. Don't get the glooms if they score first. Keep on cheering. The game isn't over till it's won!"
