“Holy smoke!” he muttered. “When did all this happen?”
“This morning,” Mr. Bradlaugh answered. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you before. Had I seen the work of our men previous to my conference with Colonel Hawtrey, you may be sure that I should have put off the big game as long as possible. Now it’s too late. A week from to-day we face Gold Hill. What can you do in that short time?”
“This is a crack right between the eyes,” murmured Frank, “and it knocks all my calculations galley west.”
“It’s certainly discouraging,” agreed Mr. Bradlaugh, “but there’s no help for it. I hear that the Gold Hillers are playing the game as they never played it before. They have a new coach who seems to have inaugurated some new plays and a whole lot of improvements.”
“A new coach?” echoed Frank. “What’s his name?”
“Guffey. I’ve heard that he’s a phenomenon, not only as a coach, but as a player.”
Merriwell’s face clouded. Here was more discouraging news, and he couldn’t help wondering where the lightning was going to strike next.
Mr. Bradlaugh was quick to note the change in Frank’s face and manner. He knew the young coach’s hopes had received a severe setback, and he tried to temper the blow.
“I don’t know who this Guffey is,” said he, “and I don’t care. You’re a heap better than he is, and I’ll bank on it.”
A ghost of a smile flickered about the boy’s lips.