Guffey, crouching on the side lines, was absently picking pebbles out of the sand and flipping them about. He seemed surprised by Ophir’s showing. Merry crouched down at his side.
“You’ve done wonders with that bunch since last week, Merriwell,” remarked Guffey.
He must have spoken before he thought. The next instant his jaw muscles flexed angrily, and his pallid face showed something like consternation.
“What do you know about our work last week, Guffey?” Frank asked.
He was so close to the other coach that it was not difficult for him to make himself heard in spite of the tumult caused by the spectators. One side or the other was howling and cheering, so that the uproar was almost continuous.
“Only—what I’ve heard,” answered Guffey, with some nervousness and constraint.
“You heard our eleven was poor?”
Guffey affected not to catch the question. He pretended to be wrapped up in the playing.
Ophir, from the twenty-five yards, had failed to gain, and punted. Gold Hill got the ball on her forty-yard line, and, after two trials that fell short, kicked again. The ball sailed over the goal line, and Ophir touched it back.
There came a bit of a lull. Frank pushed closer to Guffey.