"Then you'll have to grow some. Gee! There's been an awful lot of near-scraps to-day. In about a week I guess you'll be fighting all over the field. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! How does that strike you, Sourface? If it isn't strong enough I'll blow a bugle call."
An irritatingly long blast immediately sounded.
"Ta, ta! I go! 'Crackers' has a buttermilk voice. Got that from Clifton. Ta, ta!"
"He's a nice specimen for you," growled Parks, as Victor's small form mingled with the crowd. "Wow—look at that hit! Who cracked out that one?"
"Bush. And he's a likely one for pitcher. If anything, he's stronger than Roycroft."
As the afternoon progressed the shouts constantly swelled out into a greater volume. Little processions of Somers adherents moved recklessly through the enemy's camp, yelling lustily for their favorites.
"If we only win from Engleton," remarked Sam Randall, as they gathered in the gym on the day of the game, "it may stop some of that foolish fussing."
"Whatever happens I suppose I'll get another eight-column article from Benny Wilkins," sighed the editor of the "Reflector." "Still, I've adopted one of his suggestions. The 'Note-Book' page will hereafter be a feature of the paper."
"Goodness gracious!" murmured Tom. "Now maybe he won't do some strutting around."
"Say, Bob," put in Charlie Blake, "I've been thinking pretty hard over matters—can't help hearing a lot of things the fellows say, you know"—he glanced toward Roger Steele—"and this affair has been getting on my nerves. Now, I'm willing to step out for Roycroft, Lawrence, or anybody else who——"