There was excitement on the campus late that frosty November afternoon. At the fence a great crowd of men had gathered, and the topic they were discussing was the dropping of Frank Merriwell from the eleven. Of course, Rupert Chickering’s set was delighted. Chickering himself, with his usual double-faced hypocrisy, pretended to be grieved.
“I know Merriwell does not like me,” he said; “but I am very sorry for him, just the same. He has worked hard to get onto the eleven, and it does seem too bad for him to be put off just before the great game of the season, even though there may be better men.”
“Rats!” exclaimed Gene Skelding, who did not hesitate to show his dislike for Merry. “You know you are satisfied over it.”
“Indeed, now!” protested Rupert, posing with his cane. “Why should I be? If Merriwell is a good man to have on the eleven, if he could materially assist us in defeating Harvard, I should like to see him play, regardless of any personal spite he may hold against me.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s got it in the neck!” laughed Julian Ives, pushing his hat back in order to more fully expose his flowing bang.
“And I am not breaking my heart over it,” said Tilton Hull, who seemed to have found a collar that was even higher than the wonderfully high ones he wore habitually.
“He is a big, wude cwecher,” lisped Lew Veazie, “and he hath met with hith jutht reward.”
“It came just when we least expected it,” put in Ollie Lord, rising on his toes, so that he might be observed. “Everything seemed going Merriwell’s way.”
“I wonder who will be given Merriwell’s place?” speculated Hull.
“I have heard,” said Skelding, “that Birch will take that position, while that freshman Ready will be taken onto the team.”