“Of course they wouldn’t,” said Loring smilingly. “Especially as I’d swear you were lying, Tom.”
“That’s so,” said Dan thoughtfully, “almost any other fellow on the team would have been better.”
Somehow that remark of Tom Dyer’s stuck with him the rest of the evening and recurred to him throughout the next day. That was Wednesday, and the school was excited and impatient to learn what action the Faculty would take. The meeting was held in Oxford A at eight o’clock. At half-past nine Mr. Austin brought news of it to Dudley Hall. The verdict stood. The Doctor had been implacable and a majority of the Faculty had stood with him. The verdict had gone forth that until the culprit had publicly erased the obnoxious letters from the front of Dudley, Loring’s and Dyer’s probation was to continue. The news spread fast and in a few minutes a hundred and more students were assembled in the Yard making night hideous with their expressions of disapproval. There were cheers for Mr. Collins, for Mr. Austin, for Mr. Bendix and for Professor McIntyre, especially for Kilts, for since the school had learned of his attempt to eradicate the paint and save the culprits there had been a reversal of opinion regarding him. Kilts was now on the topmost wave of popularity, but I don’t think he ever knew it. Finally the school leaders and a few of the instructors persuaded the fellows to abandon their meeting and return to their rooms.
The final practice was held secretly on Thursday afternoon, and the whole school marched cheering to Yardley Field and witnessed the ten minutes of scrimmaging which terminated it. The songs were sung and each member of the team was cheered to the echo. Payson was cheered, and Andy Ryan, and Paddy Forbes. And then “nine long ones” were given for the Second Team. And after that the First trotted back to the gymnasium and the Second got together in the middle of the big, bare field and, led by Ridge, cheered them heartily. And the last practice was over and Yardley faced the final conflict.
The enthusiasm continued all that evening and all the next day when fresh fuel was added to it by the deciding game in the class championship series. This was between the First Class and the Second and was played on the varsity gridiron and witnessed by every fellow who could get to it. It was a good contest and First Class won by a single score, 16 to 12. First Class celebrated mightily and all the rest of the evening and far into the night sporadic cheers for “First, First, First!” echoed on the frosty air.
Dan paid a visit to Payson that evening after supper. The coach was in his room looking rather glumly at an evening paper which compared the chances of Broadwood and Yardley in Saturday’s contest and which awarded the game to Broadwood in advance. Payson was too experienced to believe all that he read in the newspapers, but the writer’s views chimed in with his own and he was much inclined to credit the paper with the gift of prophecy. He appeared very glad to see Dan, as doubtless he was. For a time they spoke of the double forward pass.
“It’s a good play, Vinton,” declared Payson almost cheerfully, “and we’ll make it work. We’ve got you to thank for that. If we had Loring I’d bet a carload of hats that we’d win. As it is—” He shrugged his shoulders disconsolately—“we’re in for a licking of some sort. I wouldn’t say this to everyone, but you’re a sensible chap, Vinton, and will play as well if not better with defeat staring at you.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” answered Dan rather listlessly. “How about Williams, Mr. Payson? Won’t he be able to play?”
“Yes, he’s in good shape, again, and we may need him before we’re through.”
“Don’t you think he can play end as well as I can, sir?”