Hollister shook his head.
“Hardly ever,” he confessed. “I couldn’t keep it out of my head if I tried, with the big game so close. Why, I even wake up in the middle of the night wondering how to work certain combinations, or thinking up some new way of getting the ball through their line. I haven’t had time to open a book in weeks.”
He gave a sudden start, and, diving down into one pocket, drew out a rather crumpled envelope.
“Just look at that,” he remarked, tossing it over to Dick.
Merriwell caught it and extracted a square, printed slip, which proved to be one of the warning notices sent out from the dean’s office when a student has fallen behind the required grade in any particular study.
“A warning in Latin,” he said thoughtfully. “You must have been pretty rotten lately, Bob. Goodhue is one of the easiest profs in college.”
“I have flunked a bunch of times,” Hollister confessed. “And that isn’t all, either. Got one in German day before yesterday. I suppose Schlemmer got on his ear after the mess I made of Heine last week.”
“You want to look out, Bobby,” Fitzgerald put in lightly. “After this morning, you’re due for still another. Dear old Piercy was purple when you made that cute remark about Anthony’s date. I’ll bet he hot-footed to the dean the minute the class was over.”
“And three warnings means a general one,” supplemented Elwell. “By hocus, Bobby! You’ll have to do a little cramming, or you’ll have the whole faculty down on your neck.”
“They are now!” Hollister burst out petulantly. “I believe it’s a put-up job. Every one of them takes a special delight in getting me up every chance they can and making a monkey out of me. They ought to know I don’t have any chance to grind right in the middle of the football season. But what do they care about football! A lot of dried-up fossils! They don’t give a rap whether we’re licked or not. I don’t believe the biggest part of ’em even see one game a season.”