Oddly enough, there was a pocket piece mixed up with the missing silver, and the most of Merry’s regret centered about that. It was a silver half dollar, neatly plugged, which had been “worked off” on Merry by some one in Sandstone, Cal. When he found that the fifty-cent piece was minted in the year of his birth, he immediately accepted it as a souvenir. With the lapse of time a sentimental interest had developed in the coin and Merriwell hated to lose it.
By the time the regulars and the scrubs got out of the gym, the hilarity of the second-string men had faded. They had played a good game and, with unexpected luck, had held the regulars. The joy aroused by this excellent showing had manifested itself directly after the game, but the scrubs had been doing a little reflecting while taking their showers and getting into their clothes.
Every member of the O. A. C. was fiercely eager to win the coming game with Gold Hill. If the club team, after weeks of coaching, could not take a game from a picked-up eleven, what chances would it have with Gold Hill? This thought pushed aside the joys of the afternoon, and filled scrubs, as well as regulars, with painful doubts.
Merry emerged smiling from the bathrooms. As he came out into the groups of players, lingering in front of the gym, many a glum face was turned wonderingly in his direction. What meant that sunny, confident smile on the face of the coach? Was it possible that he had seen anything hopeful in the afternoon’s miserable work?
Hannibal Bradlaugh, son of the president of the club, stepped up to Merry.
“I reckon, Chip,” said he, “that you think that this club team is a joke. Is that what amuses you?”
“It’s not a joke, Brad,” laughed Merry, “although it has tried to be one this afternoon. During the next two weeks I’m going to show you fellows what real work is, see? And, when we face Gold Hill you’re going to win. Regulars and scrubs will be here at two-thirty, Monday afternoon. To-morrow, Handy,” he added, to the captain of the club team, “you and I will have a little talking match at the Ophir House.”
Hope, like the measles, is “catching.” All the players, even to Spink, Mayburn and Doolittle, began to feel better.
As Merry walked through the clubhouse, on his way to the trail that led back to town, he was halted by Mr. Bradlaugh, the club’s president. Mr. Bradlaugh’s face was long and gloomy. There was a curious gleam in his eyes as they fixed themselves upon Merry’s smiling face.
“Gad,” murmured the president, “you don’t seem worried, Merriwell.”