Frank was not intending to get into the game himself, but as good substitutes were lacking, he had planned to hold Clancy and Ballard, along with a few of the best second eleven men, in reserve.
While the fellows were in the dressing rooms, getting out of their ordinary clothes and into their football togs, Chip sat in the big, bare exercise room, his head bowed in thought. Some one approached him from behind and touched his shoulder.
“Not gloomy are you, old chap?” asked a familiar voice.
Frank whirled and sprang up.
“Hello, Curly!” he exclaimed, his face flushing with pleasure. “Where the deuce have you been keeping yourself for the last few days?”
“Left Dolliver’s to go to Gold Hill on business, pard,” smiled Darrel.
The youngster’s face was pale and a little thinner than usual. His bandaged arm swung from his neck in a sling.
“I was badly disappointed when I did not see you at the ranch,” Frank went on, taking the other’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Finer than silk. A little wabbly on my pins, but that’s only temporary. I’m here to see the game, but I’ve been hanging around the gym to tell you that I don’t like the way this man Guffey sizes up. I’ve got some mighty strong doubts about him. When I heard a new coach had arrived in Gold Hill, and that Jode had signaled him to come I was filled with suspicions. That’s why I went over to the Hill. But the suspicions didn’t work out worth a darn. Yesterday I headed for Ophir.”
“What were the suspicions, Curly?”