“Still, as long as Merriwell has anything to do with the Yale team, it will give you satisfaction to see Yale defeated. You can’t deny that,” said Forrest.
“Oh, I’d rather see Yale win, for all of Merriwell, but I do not have so much sympathy with her when she loses if he plays.”
“Say!” cried Forrest. “I want you to think of one little thing. Yale seldom loses at anything when Frank Merriwell is in the game. He seems to be Old Eli’s mascot.”
“Of cawse, it’s all beastly luck,” put in Paulding. “He doesn’t really have any more to do with it than any other good man would.”
“You may think as you like about that,” said Forrest, evasively; “but you must confess that he seems to bring Yale good luck. We thought she was a dead duck at football last fall, but he put new life and snap into the team, and Yale came out on top.”
“He can’t do that with the ball team,” said Gordan. “There’s where he’ll meet his Waterloo.”
“Let’s see, Gordan,” said Forrest, “I believe you and Merriwell were rivals for pitching honors the first year in college. He got on to the ’varsity nine, and you got left. Ha, ha! You haven’t admired him since.”
Gordan flushed.
“Oh, it wasn’t that,” he declared; “but he thinks he is so much. That’s what makes me sick.”
“We all have our reasons for not loving him,” said Pooler. “It’s no use to talk about that. The worst thing I wish him now is that they make him captain of the ball team.”