And, this time, the regulars did their work admirably. The practice was secret, and no evil, greedy eyes were staring out from between the benches of the grand stand. The club eleven lit into the scrubs with a savage fury that swept all before them. Never once, in all the fierce battling of the game, was the regular’s goal in danger. This was a romp to victory, but with none of the gala features of a romp about it. Intensity of purpose marked every play. And the final score was so many to nothing that the dusty, sweating, worn-out scrubs were awed and chastened.
Tuesday afternoon the work was even harder. The scrub team was strengthened by the addition of Ballard and Clancy, and while it was being hurriedly organized, farther down the oval of the field, the regulars were being run through the signals. Up and down the field they rushed in rehearsal of all the complicated attacks. The numbers, flung out by Merry, cracked like a blacksnake whip; and, with every crack, the players leaped to their work. Again and again the coach charged the team, now against one goal and now against the other.
After a brief rest the strengthened scrub teams appears. Against them the regulars are pitted for a whirlwind fight of half an hour, cut in two by an interval of two minutes.
The hardiest of the players flop over on the warm sand, utterly exhausted, when the whistle stops the playing. Merriwell is boring down into their endurance as no coach has ever done before. But they do not complain. They know he is doing it for the glory of Ophir.
That Tuesday-afternoon match was rendered brilliant by the playing of Owen Clancy at quarter. He and Ballard, encouraging the second eleven, gave the regulars a grapple that they will long remember.
Wednesday is a repetition of Tuesday, only worse in its grinding, gruelling labor, if that were possible. Like tigers, with sinews of steel and a suddenness of lightning, the regulars spring at the throats of the scrubs. Every man on the second eleven is putting up the fight of his life. He knows that the harder he can make it for the regulars, the more it will be for the glory of Ophir. Brilliantly supported by Clancy and Ballard and, along toward the end, by Merry at half, they bring out the very last ounce of power and ability which the club team has in store.
The regulars have possession of the ball. They smash into the scrubs like a living catapult, hunting from end to end of the scrub line for the one weak point. After thirty minutes of heartbreaking play, a whistle sounds a truce. The teams are rushed to the gym, quickly sponged, fresh recruits jump into the ranks of the scrubs, and once more the regulars are put to the relentless test.
“If we can live through this,” gasps one of the regulars as, the playing over for the day, he totters in the direction of the showers, “if we can live through this we’ll eat up any eleven on earth.”
“Are you satisfied, Chip?” queried the weary, exultant Handy as he came, clothed for the street, out of the dressing rooms after the Wednesday game.
“Yes,” Merry answered, “we’ve got a bunch of winners. All aboard for Dolliver’s to-morrow afternoon.”