“Fine! Gee, Dick, you’ve grown an inch! Say, you needn’t have come to meet us. I told your——” Sumner stopped, grinning. “See who’s here?”
“Hello, Charlie! Hello, Jim! Say, I’m awfully glad——” Dick’s words stopped in his throat. Then: “Dad!” he gasped.
Mr. Bates laughed a trifle embarrassedly as he took Dick’s hand in both of his own. “Yes, it’s me, Dick. I—I thought I’d come along and keep these young fellows in order, you know. Well, how are you, son?”
“I’m great,” answered Dick, “but I’m so knocked in a heap—Think of you coming, dad! Gee, I’m glad to see you! How are you? Let’s get out of here where we can talk.” Dick took his father’s arm and piloted him out to the sidewalk. Taxicabs were not to be thought of, for the demand already exceeded the supply six to one, and so they set off along the street afoot, Dick talking and asking questions and all the others chiming in every minute. It wasn’t until they were crossing the campus, Dick pointing out the sights, that he remembered the appointment with Mr. Driscoll. Then he hurried them all to the room in Sohmer and left them in charge of Stanley while he and Sumner went on to the gymnasium. On the way Dick explained the situation to his companion, perhaps not very lucidly, and Sumner was still in a most confused condition of mind when he faced the coach. But it didn’t matter, for Mr. Driscoll’s questions were few and somewhat perfunctory after Dick had had his say about Sandy Halden. “I think, sir,” Dick ended, “that Halden didn’t find that piece of an envelope at all. I think he addressed it himself, copying my writing the best he could.”
“And I think you’re right,” agreed Mr. Driscoll. “I’ll have something to say to Halden after this game’s out of the way. He’s a dangerous fellow to have around.”
Five minutes later they were back in Number 14, in the midst of a merry din of talk and laughter. Dick couldn’t remain with them long, however, for luncheon for the players was at a quarter to one, or as soon as the Kenwood party vacated the dining hall, and so, giving the tickets he had obtained for them to Sumner, he hurried away. “Stan will look after you,” he shouted back from the door. “There’s a stand-up lunch in Alumni for visitors at one-thirty, or you can get real food in the village. Stan will take you over to the field in plenty of time and I’ll see you here after the game. So long, dad! So long, fellows!”
“Go to it, Dick!” cried Sumner. “Eat ’em up, old scout! We’ll be rooting for you!”
A sketchy luncheon in the dining hall, with no one eating much, not even the veterans like Bob Peters and Harry Warden, a flight by way of the service entrance to the gymnasium and the usual confusion of changing to playing togs and listening to final instructions at the same time. Then, at last, just before two o’clock, a heartening, quiet talk of a minute by the coach.
Kenwood was already at practice when Parkinson reached the field. The home stand arose and gave the “long cheer” and the base drummer of the Warne Silver Cornet Band thumped vigorously. Counter cheers mingled from across the field and then the visitors cheered for Parkinson, and Captain Bob led his men forth and a ten-minute warming-up followed, with three squads trotting up and down and the punters stretching their long legs down by the east goal. It was four minutes past two when the teams took their places and the din of cheering and singing subsided.