“I’ll wager something I can tell just who put them up to the game,” he said.
“Name him.”
“Pink Pooler.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Pooler hates you. He bet me fifty dollars Yale would lose the game with Princeton. I beat him at that, and I know that was not all the money he had on the game. He has put up everything he could rake that Yale will not win the pennant. If Yale wins, Pooler is ruined. If he didn’t hire that gang to do you up, I don’t know.”
“I hate to think it of him, but I remember now that he did stand in with some of my enemies who have been driven to leave college. I’ll keep my eyes open for him in the future.”
“You won’t make a mistake if you do.”
The story of the attempt to knock out Merriwell caused no small excitement, for Frank had hundreds of friends, and all Yale seemed to look to him as the Moses who might lead them out of the wilderness.
The time of the game with Harvard rolled round at last, and the boys from Cambridge came down in force. Rooters with powerful lungs and tin horns galore were on hand.
Yale was at home, and she was stuffed full of courage, for all of the queer team Frank had got together.