THE PLUGGED “HALF.”
The noon meal at Dolliver’s was a light one, for Frank did not believe
in football on a full stomach. The three big cars came along, promptly
on time, and the lads crowded into them with their suit cases. They
were a nervous lot of boys in spite of their efforts to be cool and
confident.
Frank got into a front seat of the Bradlaugh car. Mr. Bradlaugh was
driving.
“This outfit is looking mighty fit, I must say,” the president of the
O. A. C. remarked, as he put the automobile in motion on the back
track.
“The Ophir fellows are ready to make the fight of their lives,” Frank
answered.
“Bully. About all of Gold Hill was piling into our club grounds when I
left. They’re always a talkative lot and not too careful how they rag
the Ophir players. We must all remember to take the joshing in good
part.”
“You can depend on us to prove a credit to Ophir, Mr. Bradlaugh,” said
Frank quietly.
“It does me good to hear that. Win or lose, Merriwell, let’s show the
colonel and his crowd that we are true sportsmen. The colonel is always
harping on that proposition, you know, so let’s give him an example of
what it really means.”
“We will.”
The game was called for two-thirty, and it was two o’clock when the
three automobiles trailed into the inclosure at the athletic field,
trailed in single file across one end of the grounds and halted at the
doors of the gym.
Grand stand and bleachers were swarming with people. The crowd
overflowed the clubhouse balcony, filled a number of automobiles that
nosed the fence beyond the side lines, and took up every available foot
of ground that commanded a view of the gridiron.
Pennants were waving, handkerchiefs were being fluttered, and cheers
were going up on every side. The arrival of Ophir’s champions was the
signal for a bedlam of cheers that traveled across the field and back
again in a tidal wave.
“They look good, but not good enough!” howled a Gold Hiller as the
cheering lulled.
“You can’t produce anythin’ to beat ’em!” whooped a scrappy Ophir man.
“Hold yer bronks till the other crowd trots out!”
“We’ll hold our bronks, and our eleven’ll hold yore team to a
fare-ye-well!”
“Wait an’ see!”
“Yes, wait!”
This was a sample of the cross-fire indulged in by the rival rooters.
Cowboys and miners were among the partisans, on both sides, and they
were of a class not given to undue restraint.
“Hawkins is on the ground with a force of helpers,” said Mr. Bradlaugh,
as Merry climbed out of the car, “and if the good feeling happens to
get strained I reckon the deputy can smooth it out.”
“If there’s any row,” said Frank, “it will be among the rough-necks.
There’s no bitterness in our crowd. We’re going to win, and we know it.
That’s all, Mr. Bradlaugh.”
“That’s enough,” laughed Mr. Bradlaugh, with an admiring glance at
Merry as he trailed the Ophir fellows into the gymnasium.
Frank was not intending to get into the game himself, but as good
substitutes were lacking, he had planned to hold Clancy and Ballard,
along with a few of the best second eleven men, in reserve.
While the fellows were in the dressing rooms, getting out of their
ordinary clothes and into their football togs, Chip sat in the big,
bare exercise room, his head bowed in thought. Some one approached him
from behind and touched his shoulder.
“Not gloomy are you, old chap?” asked a familiar voice.
Frank whirled and sprang up.
“Hello, Curly!” he exclaimed, his face flushing with pleasure. “Where
the deuce have you been keeping yourself for the last few days?”
“Left Dolliver’s to go to Gold Hill on business, pard,” smiled Darrel.
The youngster’s face was pale and a little thinner than usual. His
bandaged arm swung from his neck in a sling.
“I was badly disappointed when I did not see you at the ranch,” Frank
went on, taking the other’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Finer than silk. A little wabbly on my pins, but that’s only
temporary. I’m here to see the game, but I’ve been hanging around the
gym to tell you that I don’t like the way this man Guffey sizes up.
I’ve got some mighty strong doubts about him. When I heard a new coach
had arrived in Gold Hill, and that Jode had signaled him to come I was
filled with suspicions. That’s why I went over to the Hill. But the
suspicions didn’t work out worth a darn. Yesterday I headed for Ophir.”
“What were the suspicions, Curly?”
“Never mind, now. I seem to be full of pipe dreams. Say, what do you
think about Jode and the colonel? You know, of course, that Jode’s
still king bee of the Gold Hill bunch. He’s got a stranglehold on the
colonel, all right!”
A shadow crossed Darrel’s face. Through it showed disappointment and a
little sadness.
“When I heard how your uncle had treated Jode, after that eye opener in
the gulch,” Frank returned, “I had begun to think that the old colonel
was in his dotage. But now I’ve changed my mind.”
“What caused the change?”
“A talk I had with the colonel last night. He came out to Dolliver’s
purposely to have a word with me.”
Darrel showed symptoms of curiosity and excitement.
“What did he say, Chip?” he asked.
“I couldn’t tell you all he said, for I haven’t time, but he gave me
a message for you. He wanted me to say, if I saw you before the game,
that you’re not to draw any wrong conclusion from the way he has been
behaving; he said that, when you know all, you’ll see how he’s acting
for the best interests of all concerned.”
“That’s mighty hard to swallow,” said Darrel, with a trace of
bitterness. “I saved his life when Jode failed, and yet he keeps right
on with Jode just as he was doing before. I’m not finding any fault
with him—he’s his own boss, and I’ve nothing to say. But I’m not the
only one that’s doing a heap of guessing because of the way he’s
acting.”
“Don’t form any snap judgments, Curly,” urged Frank. “Wait for a
while, anyhow.”
“Oh, I’ll wait,” was the hopeless response. “What can I do but wait?
But I’m pretty near discouraged. That forgery plot was too deep, too
well laid. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
“Buck up, old man! We will get to the bottom of it—mark what I’m
telling you.”
At this point the Ophir eleven and the substitutes trooped from the
dressing rooms. Although Darrel belonged with Gold Hill, yet he was
not an active Gold Hiller, and a lot of his warmest friendships were
wrapped up in the Ophir team. The boy was a prime favorite, and the
players flocked around him and pressed his hand cordially. Darrel, with
a laughing remark to the effect that he wished the Ophir fellows all
sorts of luck, excused himself and hurriedly left the gym.
The time had come for a final word with the eleven. Handy eased himself
first of what was on his mind. He recalled the fact that Ophir had been
beaten twice by the Gold Hillers. Would Ophir stand for that kind of
thing three times hand running? He thought not. With a few words of
counsel here and there, he stepped back and gave place to Merriwell.
“You know what the effect will be, fellows,” said Frank, “if you fall
down on this game?”
A chorus of affirmatives greeted the question.
“I guess I don’t have to say anything more,” Frank added. “Get
together, that’s all. You can win, and you’re going to.”
Just as he finished, a tumult of shouts and cheers came from the
spectators. One look from the gym door showed that the Gold Hill team
had trotted out on the field from their dressing rooms. They made a
fine spectacle, and, all in all, looked to be the formidable crowd that
they were.
Not only was Gold Hill cheering the team, but Ophir also had risen to
its feet and joined in with the rival rooters. This augured well for
the feeling that prevailed among the spectators.
After a few moments, the Gold Hill squad scattered over the gridiron
for a little signal work.
“Now, then, fellows,” said Handy.
As the Ophir lads appeared, there was another round of cheering; but
the volume of sound and the enthusiasm were no greater than in the
case of their opponents. At sight of the Ophir squad, the Gold Hill
players bunched together and gave them their club yell in a most
friendly spirit. Jode Lenning himself, who was always more or less of a
disturbing factor, led in the demonstration.
Handy, not to be outdone by the rivals, bunched up his men and returned
the Gold Hill greeting.
“Gee,” laughed Clancy, at Merry’s elbow, “you’d never have thought,
a spell ago, that these two clubs were ready to fly at each other’s
throats! The proper spirit prevails in wads and slathers.”
“This is merely by way of shaking hands before the bout,” smiled Merry.
“The test will come when we get down to business.”
While the Ophirites were being put through a few of their paces, Merry
started in to fulfill his promise to Colonel Hawtrey. He began looking
for Guffey.
The other coach found him first, and came forward smilingly and with
outstretched hand.
“Hello, Merriwell,” said he pleasantly. “This is a bully day for a
game, and a bully crowd of spectators.”
“You’re right,” Merry answered.
He kept close to Guffey, in an artless sort of way, and was with him
when Lenning and Handy approached to toss for positions.
“Got a dollar, Guff?” inquired Lenning.
“Here’s a half, Len,” answered the coach, dipping into his pocket.
The coin was sent spinning into the air, and, when it fell, it was
almost at Merriwell’s feet.
Lenning won, and naturally he chose the goal that had the wind in its
favor. The players scattered out on the field, and Merry was left
staring at Guffey—startled so that he scarcely realized what was going
on around him.
The coin which Guffey had furnished for the toss was the plugged half
dollar, Merry’s pocket piece, and the one that had vanished with the
rest of the money from Merry’s coat. Frank had had a good look at the
coin, and could not be mistaken.