“Her mother would not let her come,” he decided. “I’m sorry. I believe we could do better if she were here. But we must win this game, anyhow.”
After his usual manner he talked to his men during the intermission, suggesting little things, telling them where the enemy was weak, working up their confidence and courage, and doing everything in his power to get them into proper condition of mind to go in for the game and take it.
“Plover hasn’t made no great stir so far, has he, pard?” said Buckhart. “It was Andrews made that touch-down.”
“Plover?” said Singleton. “Who is Plover?”
“The fellow playing left half-back for them.”
“Why, that’s Gray.”
“That’s the name they have given him,” confessed Brad; “but his right name is Plover, and he’s the chap who got into that bad scrape at Exeter last year.”
“Why, Plover—he’s a professional!” exclaimed big Bob.
“That’s what we’re up against to-day?” nodded Brad. “Rush and Carney, their end-men, are ‘ringers.’ Neither of them is taking a regular course at Franklin. And Wettinger, the left guard, is another. Oh, they’ve got a scabby team!”
The boys were aroused.