The blue colors of Yale were everywhere conspicuous, as if to refute the assertions of Merriwell’s enemies that Frank’s team was not an accredited Yale institution. More blue would not have been displayed if a regular Yale college five was about to meet a five from another great university. The crowd grew denser and denser, as the watches showed the approach of the hour.
By and by the amateurs concluded their playing, and the New London team, which was a New London team in name only, came upon the “surface” for a warming-up before meeting Merriwell’s men.
While they were engaged in this, Frank and his five entered the room, their entrance immediately attracting attention. They came in, clothed in their roller-polo costume, with roller-skates on their feet.
Then more than half the crowd seemed to rise up; and, led by Bill Higgins, who swung his big sombrero and yelled like an Indian at a horse-race, they gave Merriwell and his men a rousing cheer. Dade Morgan whitened with rage.
“Hear the fools!” he inwardly snarled. “When will they ever get done worshiping Merriwell?”
The difference between the two teams was marked. Two of the opposing team looked like New York toughs, which they were, and the captain was a truculent-looking fellow, with eyes set close together.
When the New London team gave way for Merriwell’s, and Frank led his men on the floor for practise, the difference between the teams was so noticeable that Higgins again started a cheer which seemed to rock the building.
“I thould like to get that fellowth wope awound hith neck and choke him!” Lew Veazie disgustedly lisped to his chums of the Chickering set, as he listened to the cowboy’s bellowing. “It maketh me thick!”
“You’ll be sicker before the game is over!” said Beckwith, the big guard of the Yale football-team, who chanced to overhear him. “It makes me ashamed to know that you fellows are Yale men.”
“But Merriwell’s isn’t a Yale team!” snarled Skelding.