“I hope so,” said Chickering, “though I shall feel sorry for Merriwell, who has put so much hard work upon the freshmen. It will be a great disappointment for him.”
“That’s right!” nodded Gene Skelding, with a harsh laugh, having thrust back his cap to permit the sun to fall fairly on his beautiful brow. “It’s going to be a jolt for Merriwell, but I have it straight, the freshmen can’t win.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand why not,” said Ollie Lord, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“Why, because it is written on the Book of Fate that they are not to win,” said Tilton Hull, looking solemnly over his high collar, as a boy might peer over a whitewashed board fence.
“But that doesn’t explain it to me. Does it to you, chummie?” asked Ollie, turning to Lew.
“Hawdly,” confessed Veazie. “There mutht be thomething going on that we don’t know anything about.”
“I only received a hint of it,” said Hull, lowering his voice to a whisper, which he seemed to shoot upward into the air, his collar held his chin so high. “We’re willing to let the freshies and the sophs fight it out. We have done nothing.”
“And if the sophs choose to steal one of the freshman crew, why, that is none of our business,” said Skelding.
“But it is not honorable!” exclaimed Rupert, with an expression of horror.
“Don’t let that jar you,” said Gene. “The sophs may do the stealing, while we’ll do the winning, and Merriwell will get left all round.”