THE MORNING OF THE GAME.
Breakfast at the training table the next morning was a strange meal, to
which the fellows loitered in at whatever hour best pleased them. Many
showed signs of restless slumber, and the trainer was as watchful as an
old hen with a brood of chickens.
The principal topic of conversation was the surprising shift about at
the meeting last night on the part of Jack Kenny. He and Merriwell had
appeared in the gym so late that some of the fellows were about to sally
forth and hunt them up. They saw at once that he was very much wrought
up and excited, though Merriwell seemed as calm and steady as usual.
After the meeting was called to order, the quarter back got on his feet
and made a really impassioned speech in which he acknowledged what a
fool he had been in questioning for a moment Tempest’s ability as
captain, then besought the fellows to forget how he had been behaving
for the past week and do their best to pull things through to-morrow.
There was no doubt of his earnestness and sincerity, and great was the
speculation as to what had happened to bring about the change of heart.
Many laid it to Merriwell, but no one could be certain; for Kenny made
no explanation beyond acknowledging that he had been in the wrong.
Dick followed him with a few well-chosen, emphatic words, in which he
pointed out the need of organized teamwork, and cautioned every man to
put aside all thoughts of personal glory and work with all his might for
Yale.
His tone was hopeful and encouraging. He did not allow the fellows to
think for an instant that he had any doubts of their ultimate success,
and the results of the meeting were distinctly for the better.
Notwithstanding this, however, there were many signs of nervousness and
unrest the following morning. There always are on the day of a great
game. Men who never give a thought of their ability to win out at any
other time are seized with all sorts of absurd doubts and fears when the
crucial moment is so near at hand, which luckily vanish the instant they
line up on the field. It is only the long, anxious period of waiting
which is so trying.
Those who had Saturday morning recitations attended them, though it is
quite safe to say that they were little benefited thereby. The others
were sent out to the field, where they went through a short, brisk
signal practice.
Kenny showed up splendidly at this, and, as Dick watched him, he wished
to Heaven that he might have been brought to his senses before the
eleventh hour. It would have been so much better in every way. For
Merriwell could not help but feel a certain amount of worry and
uneasiness as to how the men would show up in the afternoon. Though he
preserved a smiling face and confident demeanor, he was inwardly not a
little doubtful of results. He knew, better, perhaps, than any one else,
how difficult it is to restore confidence once lost. Kenny’s awakening
had had a good effect, but whether it would prove a lasting one time
alone would show.
So much depended on how the game went at the start, and he resolved to
strain every effort to prevent Harvard from scoring in the first
quarter.
The short practice over, the fellows trotted a few times about the
gridiron and then returned to the campus, where they wandered about,
awaiting the arrival of the Harvard boys, who were momentarily expected.
Dick was detained by a consultation with Fullerton and Tempest, which
took place in his rooms. He did not, in fact, realize how the time had
flown, and was consequently surprised when the door was burst open
unceremoniously and his old friend Dale Sparkfair, now captain of the
Harvard varsity, rushed into the room.
“Richard, my boy, how are you?” he exclaimed, advancing with
outstretched hands. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
Dick’s face lit up with pleasure as he gripped Sparkfair’s fingers.
“Great, old fellow,” he smiled. “How’s yourself? Haven’t seen you since
that day last summer on the lake when we had a pick-up game of ball.”
“And you came so blamed near being licked,” the Harvard man put in. “You
were pretty bad, that day, old man. So very punky that I got careless
and let you in. Of course, had I been in my usual form, such a thing
would never have happened. I hope you’re prepared for a drubbing this
afternoon? Despite my native modesty, I am forced to admit that we have
collected such a team as Harvard—or, I may say, any other college—never
before turned out.”
His blue eyes were mirthful and his lips curved in a smile.
Dick laughed.
“It’s a shame to disappoint you, but we’ve just about made up our minds
to take the trick ourselves. You know Tempest and Fullerton, don’t you?”
Dale turned and shook hands with the two men.
“Sure thing,” he said. “Met Tempest last year, and everybody knows old
Bill. So you think you’re going to do us? What a shock you’ll have. It
almost makes me sad to think of it. The Philistines may walk up and down
the earth, puffing out their chests and making a mighty noise of brazen
trumpets, but great will be their fall. _Timothy_, tenth-sixteenth.”
“Same old fake Scripture quoting,” Dick smiled. “Stolen from Blessed
Jones, too. One would never suppose you were such a religious duck to
look at you, Spark.”
“Many of my best qualities are kept hidden from the vulgar eye,” Dale
returned airily. “Say, I hear you boys have doped out a great line of
tricks. Got something up your sleeves for us, have you?”
“We have,” Dick said promptly.
“You don’t say! What’s the nature of it, if I may ask? Perhaps you
object to putting me wise, though.”
“No objection whatever,” Dick answered gravely. “It’s muscle.”
“Aren’t you the cute thing!” grinned Sparkfair. “Never mind. You’re safe
to get licked, secret or no secret. Where’s that bucking broncho of a
Buckhart? I’d like to shake his big paw.”
“Down on the campus somewhere,” Dick answered. “We’ll go down and look
him up. We’re all through here.”
“Plots, I suppose,” Dale remarked, glancing from Tempest to Fullerton.
“Too bad, but they won’t do you a particle of good.”
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