“They’ve made another shift about since taking Bentley back,” thought Don, “and every change disturbs them some. There’s little time now for them to get used to the new line-up.”
It was not necessary for him to remain away from home on the pretense of practicing that night, which gave him no small satisfaction. He passed the evening reading.
The following day was bright and clear, and the eleven turned out for morning practice on the field. At school Don fancied the members of the team showed something like satisfaction, as if things had moved better. Even Thad Boland seemed relieved and well pleased.
Saturday came, and as Don came down in the morning, he was greeted by his father, who cheerfully cried:
“This is a fine day for the great game, my son—bright, sunny and cool. Are you feeling in first-class trim for it?”
“I am feeling first rate,” was the answer.
“That’s good; but it seems to me that you are not looking as well as usual. Perhaps regular practice, together with your studies, has taken hold of you.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” the boy hastened to declare. “I’m feeling fine as a fiddle.”
“Well, I’m glad of that, for you have a hard task before you to beat Highland on its own ground. I suppose you’ll want an early dinner to-day, as you always start away by noon when you are going to Highland?”
“Yes; half-past eleven will be about right.”