"Well, what's all the correspondence about Dick?" asked Paul that evening, as his chum was busily scratching away in their room. "I thought you answered Miss Hanford's last letter yesterday."
"Humph! Seems to me you've been doing something in the way of writing letters yourself. But this is business. I'm making a last appeal to Duncaster."
Dick was not very hopeful as he mailed the epistle to Hardvale.
It was the day of the Blue Hill Game, and final practice, save for a little "warm-up" on the gridiron, just before time should be called, had been held. The coaches had issued their last instructions, Dick had given his men a little talk, and all that could be done had been done.
"It's do or die now," grimly remarked the young captain. "We're fit to the minute."
"Have you heard from Duncaster?" asked Paul.
"No, and I don't expect to. He'll keep the stock I expect, or trade it to the Porter crowd. It was a slim chance, but it didn't make good."
"Well," remarked Paul, a little later, when Dick had been nervously pacing about the room. "I suppose we might as well go out on the gridiron."
"It's a bit early," objected Dick. "The Blue Hill crowd won't be here for an hour yet."
There came a knock on the door, and Toots stood there saluting between the strains of "Marching Through Georgia."