Tempest was in somewhat of a quandary. He wanted to put Hollister in, for he felt that it was barely possible that Bob might succeed in putting spirit into the jaded, discouraged men. He was fresh, too, and wrought up to a white heat of enthusiasm. It would be strange if he did not accomplish something. Don glanced at Fullerton questioningly.
The coach nodded emphatically.
“It’s the only thing that can possible save the day,” he said decidedly. “Better let him in.”
“Who——”
“Blake, of course!” Fullerton said tersely. “He’s rotten!”
Hollister’s face lit up joyfully as he listened to this brief conversation. Then the signal came, and there was a general movement to get out on the field.
Tempest walked rapidly to Blake’s side and said a few words to him in a low tone. The big, blond fellow flushed scarlet and darted a venomous glance at Bob. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly toward the athletic house, his face sullen, and the angry flush still in his cheeks.
Hollister followed the other men with a springy step and a heart fairly bursting with joy. At last he was back with the boys. It seemed almost as if he had never left them. He did not worry over the fact that, after these brief, fleeting minutes were over, he could never play again. He only knew that the team was in a bad way and needed him, and he resolved that he would play as he had never played before.
One after the other the fellows recognized him and greeted him with short, hurried words, which were an odd blending of surprise, joy, and relief; but all had such a ring of sincerity and truth that Hollister was more touched than he would have thought possible.
He dared not meet Merriwell’s glance. He had broken his promise, and he was not sorry; he hated to think of what Dick’s opinion of him would be from this time forth.