“The Gold Hillers shape up well, Chip,” remarked Clancy. “So far as beef is concerned, they put it all over our lads.”
“Headwork does more than ‘beef’ to win a game, Clan,” replied Merriwell confidently. “Look at Brad, will you!”
Hannibal Bradlaugh, playing half back for the Ophir team, had caught the ball and run it back twenty yards before he was downed. In another moment came the first scrimmage. Neither Clancy nor Merry had any time for further talk, just then, so anxious were they not to miss a single detail of the play.
Brad tried to get through the center. He gained a little, and Handy, captain and full back, went around the end for a couple of yards. The Gold Hill line was putting up a good defense, and both Merriwell and Clancy were finding time to note the work of Lenning, at right guard.
“Remember how he beat the pistol in the race with Darrel?” Clancy said to Merriwell. “If Lenning was tricky in one thing you’ll find him tricky in all. He’ll try something or other here, if I’m any prophet, Chip.”
“Not while the colonel is watching him, Clan,” Merry answered.
Handy retreated, and kicked. The colonel, carried away by the game and perhaps forgetting that an impartial spirit was to be looked for in a referee, was shouting excitedly and urging the Gold Hillers to do their best, and applauding their resistance.
Merriwell was eager to learn whether the Ophir fellows could hold the rival eleven as well as Gold Hill had held their Ophir opponents. The players crouched, then, as though touched by an electric wire, flung into action. The result was a disappointment, for Gold Hill had gone through the Ophir line for five yards.
The colonel’s excitement increased. He was cheering his club frantically when he suddenly seemed to remember his official position, and put a damper on his ardor.
“Hold them, Ophir!” whooped Clancy. “You’re just as good as they are! Aren’t you going to hold ’em?”