CHAPTER XVIII.
OFF TO THE STRUGGLE.
It was the morning of the day before Thanksgiving, and gloom brooded heavily at Yale. The report of Merriwell’s injury had gone abroad, and the odds being offered that Harvard would defeat Yale were amazing. But what was still worse, there seemed no Yale money afloat. The backers of the blue did not have courage to accept odds of three or four to one. Never in the history of the college had there been such an absolute lack of confidence. Of course, there were plenty of men who pretended to believe that Yale would win, but they did not seem sincere, and they were not taking any chances.
Lorrimer declared that the eleven was the best Yale had put onto the field in ten years. But the astonishing record of the eternally triumphant Harvard team stared them in the face, and they knew to a man that they were going against the hardest proposition they had ever tackled.
Hodge had not held a secure position on the team, and, on account of his free talk after Merriwell’s injury, he had been dropped back with the substitutes. It is a wonder he was not told his services could be dispensed with entirely. Frank knew the men were preparing to take the train for Boston. He had expected to be with them, and he had pictured in his mind the rollicking Thanksgiving he would have. Now he was thinking it would be the most dismal for years.
There were steps outside, and then Steve Lorrimer came hurriedly in, his face flushed and his eyes downcast.
“How do you do, Mr. Lorrimer?” said Merry pleasantly. “I hope you’ll excuse me for not rising.”
Lorrimer closed the door carefully.
“Merriwell,” he said, “I’ve come to beg your pardon.”
“What?” cried Frank, astounded.