"Toots. He was whistling 'Just Before the Battle, Mother,' when I spotted him, and he sung out that the list was up. I want to see if my name is there."
"It sure is—you played your head off yesterday," declared Dick.
"That's no sure sign. I wish I had your chances."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dick. Yet, deep down in his heart he could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, he might be put on the scrub. He had played his best, but he had made some errors, and one fumble. Yet it would seem that his run and touchdown would count for much.
"Aren't you ever coming?" asked Paul. "Jove! I can't wait."
"Sure I'm coming," answered his roommate, as he tossed the book upon a heap of others. "No use getting excited though."
It was the day after the try-out game, and the coaches after a long and none too easy process of elimination had arrived at some definite results. They had made up a tentative Varsity team.
As Dick and Paul hurried across the campus toward the gymnasium, they saw many other students bent on the same errand as themselves, for the news had quickly spread, and each cadet who had football aspirations was anxious to see if he was one of the lucky eleven.
There was such a crowd about the bulletin board that for a time Dick and his chum could not get near it. They heard many names called out though, for the second team was posted as well as the first.
"There's Beeby—lucky dog—he's made it!" exclaimed someone.