“Where were you when the balloon went up, Mr. Bradlaugh?” Frank inquired.
“On the clubhouse balcony, watching the ascension. What’s got into the boys?”
“Just an off day with them, I think. That will happen to the best teams, you know.”
“I was badly disappointed. After three weeks at Tinaja Wells, the eleven seems to put up a poorer article of football than they did when they left here to go into camp. I’m afraid they’ve been having too good a time, up the cañon.”
“They worked hard and faithfully at the Wells, Mr. Bradlaugh,” declared Frank. “The change from the mesa to their home field may have had a bad effect on them. Come Monday afternoon and watch them, and I think you’ll see something worth while. We have two weeks before the big game, and, by then, the squad will be tinkered into winning form.”
“Not two weeks, Merriwell.”
Frank started and flung a quick look at Mr. Bradlaugh.
“Has there been a change in the date?” he asked.
“There has. Colonel Hawtrey and I had a talk about Thanksgiving Day, and made up our minds that it’s time we followed the practice that prevails in the East. We’ll not play any more on that particular day, and we decided that our respective clubs will come together on Saturday afternoon of next week.”
Frank’s smile faded. The time for whipping the team into shape had been cut down one-half. Seven days were left—six days, with Sunday out—and not all of those six days could be given to hard work. The practice should slow up for two days before the game.