"'Mine not to reason why,
Mine but to do or die.'"
"And you died, I notice, and you'll die some more up at Warwick next Saturday," prophesied the cold-hearted Codfish.
Very little was done on the gridiron during the week preceding the Warwick game. The players were rested after the hard struggle they had gone through with the Porter School team. There was some secret practice and several trick plays were run over. The last work-out was on Wednesday afternoon.
"Only light drill to-morrow," announced Horton, "and nothing at all on Friday."
"Do you know the signals of the First eleven?" inquired Horton of Frank when he was coming out of the shower bath that night.
"I've picked up most of them, yes, sir," said Frank.
"I thought so," said Horton, grinning, "by the way you played on defense. Here's a set of them. Get them well in your head. Perhaps we may need you to-morrow."
Frank's heart took a great leap in his breast. "'Perhaps we will need you to-morrow,'" he kept repeating to himself. "But after all it is only 'perhaps.' Well, that's better than nothing." That night Horton's "perhaps" kept him awake half an hour longer than usual, and he went to sleep finally to dream of the clash of battle in which he had a part.
Thursday was given to signal drill, short, sharp and snappy. The bleachers were well filled with boys who had come down in an organized mass to try out their new songs. As the players rolled and tumbled around on the ground, the sharp cheer rang out, and at its end was the name of a player.
"Come on, get into this, now," shouted the cheer leaders—