“Oh, I’ll wait,” was the hopeless response. “What can I do but wait? But I’m pretty near discouraged. That forgery plot was too deep, too well laid. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
“Buck up, old man! We will get to the bottom of it—mark what I’m telling you.”
At this point the Ophir eleven and the substitutes trooped from the dressing rooms. Although Darrel belonged with Gold Hill, yet he was not an active Gold Hiller, and a lot of his warmest friendships were wrapped up in the Ophir team. The boy was a prime favorite, and the players flocked around him and pressed his hand cordially. Darrel, with a laughing remark to the effect that he wished the Ophir fellows all sorts of luck, excused himself and hurriedly left the gym.
The time had come for a final word with the eleven. Handy eased himself first of what was on his mind. He recalled the fact that Ophir had been beaten twice by the Gold Hillers. Would Ophir stand for that kind of thing three times hand running? He thought not. With a few words of counsel here and there, he stepped back and gave place to Merriwell.
“You know what the effect will be, fellows,” said Frank, “if you fall down on this game?”
A chorus of affirmatives greeted the question.
“I guess I don’t have to say anything more,” Frank added. “Get together, that’s all. You can win, and you’re going to.”
Just as he finished, a tumult of shouts and cheers came from the spectators. One look from the gym door showed that the Gold Hill team had trotted out on the field from their dressing rooms. They made a fine spectacle, and, all in all, looked to be the formidable crowd that they were.
Not only was Gold Hill cheering the team, but Ophir also had risen to its feet and joined in with the rival rooters. This augured well for the feeling that prevailed among the spectators.
After a few moments, the Gold Hill squad scattered over the gridiron for a little signal work.