“They look good, but not good enough!” howled a Gold Hiller as the cheering lulled.
“You can’t produce anythin’ to beat ’em!” whooped a scrappy Ophir man.
“Hold yer bronks till the other crowd trots out!”
“We’ll hold our bronks, and our eleven’ll hold yore team to a fare-ye-well!”
“Wait an’ see!”
“Yes, wait!”
This was a sample of the cross-fire indulged in by the rival rooters. Cowboys and miners were among the partisans, on both sides, and they were of a class not given to undue restraint.
“Hawkins is on the ground with a force of helpers,” said Mr. Bradlaugh, as Merry climbed out of the car, “and if the good feeling happens to get strained I reckon the deputy can smooth it out.”
“If there’s any row,” said Frank, “it will be among the rough-necks. There’s no bitterness in our crowd. We’re going to win, and we know it. That’s all, Mr. Bradlaugh.”
“That’s enough,” laughed Mr. Bradlaugh, with an admiring glance at Merry as he trailed the Ophir fellows into the gymnasium.