"I got odds of two to one from some of the Blue Hill crowd," boasted Porter, who had a liking for betting. "I could have gotten bigger odds before the Haskell fight, but the Blue Hill fellows are a bit shy now. I should think you'd back your own team, Hamilton," he said, with a half sneer at Dick.
"It isn't in my line," was the answer, "though I've no objections to you fellows backing us for all you're worth. We'll come in winners, I'm sure."
"I wish I could play," spoke Porter more earnestly than he was in the habit of doing. "Is there any chance for me, Hamilton?" He had effectually put his pride in his pocket to thus appeal to the lad who for no cause he disliked.
"I wish there was," answered the captain. "Of course you will have the same chance as the other subs, and if the fight is as rough as I expect it will be, we may be playing all of you before it's over."
"Then I can't go in at the opening?"
"I don't see how you can very well. Of course I haven't it all to say. Why don't you go see the coaches?"
"What good would that do. They're in your pay, and——"
"That will do!" cried Dick sharply, and Porter knew enough to stop that sort of talk. He turned away, a bitter look on his face and a bitter feeling in his heart.
"I'll get even with you yet," he muttered. "I'll fix you and your football team, Dick Hamilton!"
Dick was like some anxious mother the night before the game. He went to the rooms of each of his players and saw that they were in. Inquiries as to how they felt met with the reply that they were all "fit."