There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered:
“I wonder when you’ll get your chance?”
“Oh, some day, maybe,” was the answer. “I can wait. I’m glad you’ve had yours.”
“I must make good, though,” declared Joe, half fearful that he would not.
They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of the team, the substitutes and the “rooters” in right royal fashion. A big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired.
“I wonder if we’ll win?” mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and showed up well.
“A fine, snappy lot of fellows,” observed Jimmie Lee. “We’ve got our work cut out all right.”
“That’s what,” declared Hen Johnson.
As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former ’varsity pitcher—who was now second choice it seemed—was much excited, and as Joe passed he heard Weston say:
“Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can’t I have it?”