Colonel Morrell turned to his cadets. “You may go, boys,” he said. “Spread the news that Woodcrest will play Dimsdale!”
The cadets saluted and left the room and in a short time the news was flying all over the school. The cadets went wild and the coach was enthusiastic. On the next day a formal challenge was sent to the rival school, and in another day the reply was received.
“We play ’em on November 24th,” said the coach, briefly. “I hear that they plan to wipe up the ground with us!”
“That is what you hear!” smiled Hudson, grimly. “Wait until you see the game!”
Chapter 8
An Old Score Settled
A low, gray ceiling of clouds hung over the field at Woodcrest when the cadet team came out to play that November afternoon. Stands were crowded, and as the team entered the field a cheer went up from the Woodcrest section and a yell of derision from the Dimsdale side of the field. Briefly, the cadet team looked at the beefy Dimsdale team across the field, where they were running signals. Grim mouths, bright eyes, and hearts filled with determination marked the silent purpose of the young soldiers.
When the news of the coming game with the Class A champions had been circulated around town great had been the derision. The two teams were in different classes, the preparatory school ranking in the higher Class A division and the military school in the lighter Class B aggregation. Woodcrest had not lost a game nor had Dimsdale, in each class. Crushing power lay with the preparatory school machine and nothing but the stings of years of insults and determined purpose with the cadets. Those who cared for such things had made heavy bets against the cadet team and the feeling was general that Woodcrest was in for a bad beating.
The football coach had not said much to his team, but he had said just enough. He told them that the feeling was against their chances of winning, that the whole thing was looked upon as foolishness, and that Dimsdale was frankly considering it nothing more than a practice game. This was their chance, he told them, to settle once and for all an old score, and his only plea was that they play like gentlemen and forget revenge.
“Because if you think of it merely as a revenge, you are sure to lose,” the coach wound up. “Bad sportsmanship spoils and defeats any game. Knowing you as I do and just how you feel, I know you’ll play your hardest, and my only request is that you play clean and hard.”
It was therefore a silent, grim group which trotted out on the gridiron and started to run through signals. Derisive yells and cat-calls came from the opposite side of the stands. They fell on heedless ears, or at least on unresponsive ones. Quarterback Vench called his signals quietly, the ball was snapped with calm accuracy, and although the hearts of the soldiers beat rapidly there was no outward sign to show that they were burning with an eager fire inside.