rest of the Wolf Gang, composed of cadets who hated Dick Merriwell – Mark Crauthers, Fred Stark, Sam Hogan, and Bunol, the Spanish boy – were there and rejoiced. These fellows did not dare show their satisfaction openly, but they expressed it to one another.
Sammy of Hudsonville was disappointed, but he kept up his cheering for Fardale and for Dick Merriwell right through to the end of the half.
“What are you yelling for?” asked a man roughly. “Fardale is getting beaten.”
“That’s all right,” said Sammy. “I’ve seen them fellows play before. I saw them play last Saturday, and they crawled out of a worse hole than this. You can’t keep Dick Merriwell from winning.”
“You seem to be stuck on Dick Merriwell?”
“I am. He’s all right, you bet! I’ll bet a hundred dollars he wins this game!”
“I’ll take you,” said the man. “Put up your hundred dollars.”
Sammy gasped.
“I – I ain’t got a hundred dollars,” he said; “but I’ve got a brand-new bike that cost pretty near that, and I’ll bet that.”
The man laughed.
“I don’t want to rob you of your wheel,” he said, “so we won’t bet.”
“Don’t you be afraid of robbing me!” exclaimed the boy. “But I think you need your money, so you hadn’t better bet.”
Dick had looked in vain for June Arlington. She had said she would see him that afternoon, but he was sure she was not in the stand where most of the ladies were assembled.
“Her mother would not let her come,” he decided. “I’m sorry. I believe we could do better if she were here. But we must win this game, anyhow.”
After his usual manner he talked to his men during the intermission, suggesting little things, telling them where the enemy was weak, working up their confidence and courage, and doing everything in his power to get them into proper condition of mind to go in for the game and take it.
“Plover hasn’t made no great stir so far, has he, pard?” said Buckhart. “It was Andrews made that touch-down.”
“Plover?” said Singleton. “Who is Plover?”
“The fellow playing left half-back for them.”
“Why, that’s Gray.”
“That’s the name they have given him,” confessed Brad; “but his right name is Plover, and he’s the chap who got into that bad scrape at Exeter last year.”
“Why, Plover – he’s a professional!” exclaimed big Bob.
“That’s what we’re up against to-day?” nodded Brad. “Rush and Carney, their end-men, are ‘ringers.’ Neither of them is taking a regular course at Franklin. And Wettinger, the left guard, is another. Oh, they’ve got a scabby team!”
The boys were aroused.
“Let’s beat them, hany’ow!” cried Billy Bradley.
“It would be a shame, a measly shame!” said Ted Smart.
“By Jim!” squeaked Obediah Tubbs; “if them fellers is goin’ to play that sort of a team they want to look out! Dern my picter if I don’t sail in hot an’ heavy next half!”
“Everybody sus-sus-sus-sail in!” chattered Chip Jolliby. “We can eat ’em up!”
“Eat ’em! eat ’em!” growled Harry Dare.
So the boys went back on to the field in something of a fierce mood. Franklin had fancied the cadets would be spiritless and easy toward the end of the game, but when they found the home team snappier than ever, they were amazed.
“On your taps every moment, fellows,” said Dick. “Keep them guessing.”
Fardale did keep them guessing, but Franklin seemed to recover from her first surprise and settled down for a stubborn battle. It was hot work. With the ball down for the first time on Franklin’s forty-yard line, the cadets could not make a gain, and were forced to kick. Hickman ran back in anticipation of the kick, which he took prettily, and the Fardale rushers were blocked long enough to give him a start, which he improved.
Down the field came the captain of the visiting team. Two of his men turned in with him as interferers and blocked first one and then another of the Fardale tacklers. Hickman was covering ground handsomely and had reached the middle of the field before Darrell closed with him and dragged him down,
“Great! Great work, Hal!” panted Dick, in admiration. “I was afraid you’d miss him.”
Hal said not a word.
Franklin had done a clever bit of work, and she was determined to improve it now. The ball was snapped and passed to Gray, who went across and plunged into the right wing of Fardale’s line, hitting Jolliby hard and going through for four yards.
Again Darrell was in the play and stopped the runner.
Andrews, the right half-back, took the ball next time and went at the right side of Fardale’s line.
The forwards ripped open a hole for him and he slipped through, but Dick Merriwell hooked on to his legs and pulled him down. This time, however, full five yards had been made.
“Got to stop it, fellows!” breathed Dick.
Franklin was full of confidence.
“Get ’em going, boys!” said Hickman. “They’ll never be able to stop us.”
But an attempted end run resulted in a loss of three yards, as the runner tried to dodge back to avoid a tackler. Dick was certain a plunge into the line would follow.
“20 – 23 – 2,” called Quaile, the quarter-back.
Dick was not mistaken. Hickman came plunging right into the line, and he was met and held in handsome manner. Now something must be done.
The cadet band was playing “Fardale’s Way,” and a great mass of cadets took up the song. The words seemed sufficient to encourage the desperately fighting lads.
“It’s no use groaning, it’s no use moaning,
It’s no use feeling sore;
Keep on staying, keep on playing,
As you’ve done before;
Fight, you sinner, you’re a winner
If you stick and stay;
Never give in while you’re living —
That is Fardale’s way.”
It was a song to stiffen the backs of those lads. It seemed to do its work, for again Franklin was held fast without a gain.
Singleton ran back in anticipation of a kick, which the visitors apparently prepared for. But the preparation was made to deceive, and Gray was sent with a rush into the line, which it was hoped to take unprepared.
What a roar of delight went up from the bleachers when the line held and Gray was
