Frank got into a front seat of the Bradlaugh car. Mr. Bradlaugh was driving.
“This outfit is looking mighty fit, I must say,” the president of the O. A. C. remarked, as he put the automobile in motion on the back track.
“The Ophir fellows are ready to make the fight of their lives,” Frank answered.
“Bully. About all of Gold Hill was piling into our club grounds when I left. They’re always a talkative lot and not too careful how they rag the Ophir players. We must all remember to take the joshing in good part.”
“You can depend on us to prove a credit to Ophir, Mr. Bradlaugh,” said Frank quietly.
“It does me good to hear that. Win or lose, Merriwell, let’s show the colonel and his crowd that we are true sportsmen. The colonel is always harping on that proposition, you know, so let’s give him an example of what it really means.”
“We will.”
The game was called for two-thirty, and it was two o’clock when the three automobiles trailed into the inclosure at the athletic field, trailed in single file across one end of the grounds and halted at the doors of the gym.
Grand stand and bleachers were swarming with people. The crowd overflowed the clubhouse balcony, filled a number of automobiles that nosed the fence beyond the side lines, and took up every available foot of ground that commanded a view of the gridiron.
Pennants were waving, handkerchiefs were being fluttered, and cheers were going up on every side. The arrival of Ophir’s champions was the signal for a bedlam of cheers that traveled across the field and back again in a tidal wave.