“Because, no matter how good a line we put forward, the Army may put forward a better.”

“Now, don’t go tooting the Army’s bugle!”

“I am just considering the average of chances,” Darrin returned.  “Danny boy, sometimes the Navy wins, but most of the games of past years have gone to the Army.  So the chances are that we’ll be beaten this year.”

“Not if I have to die on the line to stop it!” glowed Dalzell at red heat.

“Maybe you won’t even get on the Navy line; perhaps I won’t, either, Danny boy.  But you know we saw by the “Army and Navy Journal” that Prescott and Holmes are playing on the West Point eleven this year.”

“Holmes isn’t necessarily such a much, is he?” flared Dan.

“Greg Holmes is a pretty handy man on the football field,” retorted Darrin warmly.  “None ought to know that better than we, after we’ve seen Holmes pull out so many victories for the old High School team.  Of course, Prescott is the better player, but Holmes can back him up to amazing advantage.”

“Didn’t we play about as good a game as that pair?” Dalzell demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dave answered thoughtfully.  “Perhaps not quite as good a game.  You see, in the old High School days, Dick Prescott used to lead and I often backed up his plays.  So one could hardly compare us.”

“If you’re in such a blue funk over the Navy’s chances, you’d better keep off the line-up,” muttered Midshipman Dalzell.

“Oh, I’m in no funk,” returned Darrin, smiling.  “However, I’m not going to be betrayed into any bragging until we’ve wiped the field up with the Army—­if we can.”

Rap-tap! came on the door.

“I’ll wager that’s Farley,” whispered Darrin.

“Or Page”—­from Dan.

“Come in,” called Dave.

The door opened, to let in Farley, with Page crowding on his heels.

Dave and Dan both hastened forward to clasp hands with these tried chums of other days.

“Seen Hepson?” asked Dan.

“Yes,” nodded Farley.  “He told us he had gobbled you.  Hepson just left us.”

“You’re going to be on the eleven!” pressed Dan.

“If we can make it,” nodded Farley slowly.  “I’d like to play, too, but I’m hoping that the Navy can hit on some one better than myself.”

“Cold feet!” grinned Dan.

“Not exactly,” Farley answered, with a slight flush.  “But it’s a big thing to play on the Navy’s fighting eleven.  It seems almost too big a responsibility for any but a demi-god.”

“Demi-gods don’t play football,” jeered Dan.  “They’re nothing but idols, anyway, and they’re two thousand years out of date.  What we want on the Navy line is real human flesh and blood.”

“There’ll be blood on the doorstep of the moon if the Army carries things away from us this year,” predicted Page mournfully.

“Well, all we can do is our best,” declared Dave.  “We’ll do that, too, and do it mightily.  Wow!  What’s that?”