That was a punk throw of Martin's." "It's all well enough for you fellows to pretend that you know what's going to happen when the quarter-back shouts a lot of numbers to you," observed Amy, hugging his knees and exposing a startling view of crushed-raspberry socks, "but I'm too old a bird--no pun intended this time--to be caught.

Besides, I played once for a couple of weeks, and I know that signals didn't mean anything to me." "Funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled Clint.
"The quarter-back just bawls out whatever comes into his head and then he tosses the ball to whichever chap looks as if he was wide enough awake to catch it and that chap makes a break at the line wherever he happens to think he can get through," continued Amy convincedly.

"All this stuff about signals is rot.

Now we'll see.

Where's this play going ?" Clint listened to the signal.