"Sure thing."
"Are they practising?"
"Yes."
"Frank Merriwell there?"
"Yes; he is coaching."
Jabez Lynch was standing beneath the tree which Uric Scudder had climbed, and he was the one who asked the questions. Uric had managed to draw himself up to a somewhat perilous position near the end of a bending branch, where he clung as he gazed away beyond the narrow fringe of woods.
In a clearing beyond that fringe of woods the Fardale team was hard at work in secret practise. Having no fenced field, from which unwelcome spectators could be excluded, it became necessary for the eleven to retire to this spot when it was decided to get in practise, for Frank Merriwell did not care to have witnesses outside the regular players and a few chosen and trusted substitutes.
Although Fardale had defeated Rivermouth, the most loyal and enthusiastic cadet was obliged to confess that the result was brought about principally through the splendid and amazing work of Dick Merriwell. Rivermouth had seemed far too strong for Fardale, and honest ones acknowledged that the cadets would not have scored once had Merriwell been out of the game.
This filled Dick’s enemies with bitterness and envy, but they dared say very little openly against the remarkable boy from the West. But both friends and foes united in saying it was unfortunate when a team showed up so weak that it could be seriously, perhaps fatally, crippled by the loss of a single man.
While he was proud of his brother, Frank Merriwell quickly decided that there must be less individual playing and more team-work. Fardale must be put in such condition that the loss of a star player would not surely defeat her.