The newspapers said that Yale had one great player, and that one was Frank Merriwell. That is, some of the papers said so; but there were papers that persisted in declaring that Merriwell had deteriorated in a frightful manner since his former days on the gridiron. They declared that the year he had lost had been his ruin, as he had not been able to get himself back to his old-time form.
There were plenty of men at Yale who believed these papers were right—or pretended to believe it. There were a few men at Yale who found a way to send out reports that Merriwell was entirely out of condition, and that he had never fully recovered from injuries received in other games. These men took care that the reports reached the ears of newspaper men, and they rejoiced when they saw them published broadcast by the papers. Merriwell saw these reports and kept still. He smiled grimly to himself, and did not take pains to deny anything. Even his most intimate friends found it difficult to induce him to say anything about himself.
Frank was on the field this day, and he had been working hard with the others. Now he was standing with some friends, enfolded in a sweater and blanket, talking.
“What’s your opinion of our chances with Harvard?” asked Stubbs. “I have confidence in you. If you say we’ll win——”
“We’ll win——” began Frank.
“Hooray!” cried Bink.
“——if——”
“Oh, there’s an if!” gasped Bink.
“——we are not worked out of condition,” finished Frank.
“What do you mean?” asked another man. “Do you think the fellows are being overworked?”