Bart, of course, had no further objection to offer to Dade Morgan as a member of the nine, and the work of choosing the players went on without any other unpleasant incidents. When the final selections were made, Frank was satisfied that the Yale team was competent to put up a good game of ball and would more than hold its own against its Southern rivals, and his judgment was confirmed on the field.
The date scheduled for the game at Charlottesville, Virginia, proved to be a beautiful, mild day, early in April. It was near noon, and among the crowd gathered to greet the players on the platform of the railroad-station were two men strikingly unlike in appearance. One was tall, raw-boned, sinewy; the other was of medium height, young, slender, and flashily dressed. The taller of the two was rough, and plainly given to dissipation. He was about forty years of age and a tough-looking customer. The other was in his early twenties, but he had the face of a youthful drinker, and there was about him an offensive air of conceit.
The elder man was Jack Cunningham, brother of Bill Cunningham, the famous Blue Ridge moonshiner and outlaw. The younger was Roland Ditson, once a student at Yale College.
Cunningham was listening to the guarded talk of his youthful companion. He had reddish hair and beard. His trousers were tucked in the tops of his boots, and he wore a woolen shirt that was open at the neck. His build was that of a man possessing great strength and endurance.
“I reckon yo’ don’t love this Frank Merriwell much,” said Cunningham.
“I hate him,” replied Ditson, who was smoking a cigarette and nervously handling his cane. The first two fingers of his right hand were stained a sickly yellow.
“What makes yo’ hate him so ver’ much?” asked Cunningham.
“I can’t tell the whole story; it’s too long.”
“Did he steal a girl away from yo’ some time?”
“No. We were at college together. He’s still going to college. He set himself up as a leader as soon as he entered.”