Zeb Fletcher came round while the players were being rubbed down, water having been brought to the barn in buckets.
"Great work!" he said, pretending to be pleased. "I didn’t think we had a chance once."
"Sheer off!" roared Brad Buckhart, his hand going to his hip, as if to pull a shooting-iron. "That kind of praise makes me want to do some target-practise."
Fletcher got away from Buckhart in a hurry, confiding to a friend that the fellow from Texas was a great bluffer.
Frank Merriwell personally superintended the work of rubbing down the men, giving directions and talking with the players. It was noticed that he said no word to Dick Merriwell; he simply grasped the hand of his brother.
Frank’s words to the team were sufficient to give them new courage. He spoke in whispers to Captain Nunn, who listened gravely, nodding his head.
"Fellows, we’re going to win this game," said Steve, when Frank had passed on to some one else.
He was full of confidence, and this spirit was felt by the others. It was plain enough that Merry did much good by his manner of speaking to the players and encouraging them. He criticized, to be sure, but his criticisms were not harsh and sneering, after the manner of some coaches, for he knew there was no surer way of getting a young team rattled and discouraged than by snarling at them and using harsh language in making criticisms. He had seen such things done, and now he would have guarded against it had his inclination been to make such criticisms.
Thus it came about that Fardale returned to the field in good spirits, every man ready to do his level best in the last half.
Fardale kicked off, Singleton again being the man. Big Bob made a very handsome drive to within twelve yards of Rivermouth’s goal; but Hurting promptly punted ten yards into the territory of the visitors.