Near the clubhouse were ten young fellows comprising Frank Merriwell’s athletic team. Of a sudden they gave a yell of their own:
How is Merriwell?
Oh, he’s very well!
Merry! Merry!
He’s the huckleberry!
This created a laugh, and suddenly the cheer for Merriwell was taken up all along the two lines following the shoulders of the road. The cheering for others had broken out in spots. This cheer for the best-known amateur athlete in America began at the clubhouse and ran away into the distance, growing in volume, until it seemed that every man, woman, boy, girl, and child was shouting.
In the dressing rooms the contestants were making final preparations. Frank was there. He and Tom Bramwell spoke a few low words together.
“Don’t miss the splintered pine, Bramwell,” said Frank. “It marks the spot where we cut into the Dead Timbers. You know how easy it can be missed.”
“I know,” nodded Bramwell. “I’m going to stick by you that far—if I can.”
“If you can! Don’t get an idea that you can’t do it. After we pass Ragged Hill will come the grand pull to the finish.”