Whenever a play was carried out with unusual adroitness Chester nodded and smiled.
“Great!” he said. “The team is in the finest possible shape, and Merriwell must be given credit for it all. I have doubted his ability in the past, but I acknowledge my mistake.”
“He makes me sick!” muttered Fred Stark, walking away.
Stark found Mark Crauthers talking to Sam Hogan over near the grand stand. Crauthers had been doctoring his eye, but he looked as if he had been “up against the real thing.”
“Look here,” said Fred, as he joined the others, “there’s Arlington over yonder clapping and cheering for Merriwell. I wanted to hit him, but——”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Crauthers. “I know just how you felt. I did hit him! And he hit me! I hadn’t an idea a fellow who had been whipped by Merriwell could fight the way he can.”
“He’s a thorough cad!” declared Stark. “I see through his little game. He’s beaten by Merriwell, and he has given up. Now he hopes to get on by turning round and howling for that fellow—hopes to get taken into Merriwell’s set, perhaps.”
Hogan glanced round. Seeing there was no one near enough to hear what they were saying, he spoke in a low tone:
“The Wolves are broken up. He’s never been any use. We three are the only ones left.”
“And we may as well quit,” said Crauthers regretfully. “If he gets in with Merriwell, he’ll give the whole thing away.”