“You think, Merriwell,” said he, “that I haven’t any friends, and that this game would probably make some for me. Is that it?”
“Well, yes, something like that.”
“Don’t you know,” went on Lenning, paling a little under his tan, “that if I failed in a close play some one would say that I was trying to throw the game? Nobody has any confidence in me. Every one has the notion that I’m a crook, and can’t get over it. My cue is to keep away from people. I’m sorry, Merriwell, because if there’s one person on earth I’d hate to disappoint, it’s you.”
“I don’t think that’s the proper spirit, Lenning,” insisted Frank. “You’re all right, but how is any one going to know it if you don’t get out and show them? I’m planning on you. You’re one of the first fellows I thought about when the idea of the game was sprung on me this afternoon.”
“Who sprung it?”
“Colonel Hawtrey.”
“And your pick-up nine is going to play a team from Gold Hill?”
“Yes.”
“That does settle it. Even if I could get along with the Ophir crowd, I’ll bet the Gold Hillers would refuse to play if they knew I was in the game.”
There was bitterness in the boy’s voice.