This principle Mike had an opportunity to put into practice the next morning when he passed a knot of older boys gathered at the corner of the school building, where they waited for the nine o’clock bell to ring and meantime swapped news and jokes and covertly watched the girls who by twos and threes and fours passed on the other side of the street on the way to Miss Wheeler’s school. Eaton reached out and seized the boy by the shoulder. “Ticket for the game?” he demanded.
“Got one,” said Mike, coolly, shaking himself free.
“What do you say, Mike,” asked Wilmot; “are we going to beat Newbury?”
“Sure thing, only they’ve got to get those forward passes down better.”
“Do you hear that?” called Wilmot, as the boy trotted away. “Mike says we’re going to win. That settles it. No use to practice any more. It’s all up with Newbury.”
“He’s trying to make us win; that’s more than can be said of you,” spoke Talbot, disapprovingly.
“What’s the matter with me?” protested Wilmot. “Don’t I spend half my time tagging round after you fellows as manager?”
“A bum manager!” grumbled Horr. “Where are those W sweaters?”
“Mike is doing his little best to build up a school sentiment behind us,” continued Talbot, “and you—well, you’re laughing at us most of the time. Mike knows what he’s talking about, too, when it comes to football.”
Wilmot assumed an indignant manner. “That’s a base libel. I’m trying to keep you from being over-confident.”