“Yes, we’re going to see Owen beat Coy again.”
“Do you expect to see that?”
“We hope so.”
“I don’t know but I’ll go there, too,” said Brantwein, meditatively.
“You may not be able to get a seat now.”
“I don’t care about seats.”
The three approached the entrance to the grounds together, but there in the crowd Brantwein disappeared. Our friends gave little heed to the movements of their eccentric schoolmate, being taken up with the pleasant excitement of the quest of places. Duncan hailed several fellows whom he knew, and pointed out several others whom he knew about. While they were waiting for the nines to appear, with Duncan still busy over his search for familiar faces, Sam’s eyes fell upon a well-known figure seated on one of the benches reserved within the side lines for coaches and old players.
“Look there, Duncan,” he cried, “on the first bench on the side line! Isn’t that Brandy?”
“As sure as guns!” returned Duncan. “How did he get there?”
“Search me!” returned Sam. “He has the most colossal nerve! He told me once that with a two-foot rule in his hand he could get into any building going up,—construction work, he called it,—even if a man stood at the door to keep people out. Perhaps Owen let him in.”