The announcer continued, "Number 36 in at quarterback, folks. Now he's
calling signals. There's the snapback. The new man is going to kick....
No, he's going to pass.... No, he's going to run.... No--he's fumbled!
"There's a pile-up behind the goalposts! They're unscrambling the
players. And--it's a touchdown for the Rocketeers, folks! The score is
13-0!"
Hanson let loose a great roar of delight. "There! I knew it! Good thing
you didn't bet, Biggs!"
And then, astonishingly, Lancelot Biggs spoke up. "How much would you
like to wager, Captain?"
"How--much?" Hanson looked stunned. "Every cred in my poke, Lieutenant.
Two hundred and fifty."
"I'll take that bet," said Biggs.
* * * * *
I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed,
"Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you _must_ bet--"
But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands of a
neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new tenseness in all of
us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast.
In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh,
Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This is a
slaughter. The same as last year."
Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this time on
a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were literally swooning
with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any Wrangler who
would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that is, but one
man--First Mate Lancelot Biggs.
In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper.
"Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for
another stake."