Guffey left the dining room before Frank and his chums had finished their breakfast. When they finally came out they found Handy, captain of the Ophir eleven, waiting for them. Handy showed traces of excitement.
“What was Guffey, the Gold Hill coach, doing over here, Chip?†he demanded.
“Nothing more than eating his breakfast, Handy, so far as I know. Are you acquainted with him?â€
“I’ve heard him described, and I thought I had him spotted as he passed through the office. To settle any doubts, I looked at the register. There was his name, plain enough: ‘Simeon Guffey, Gold Hill.’ I don’t like the idea of his sneaking around Ophir like this.â€
“Don’t be in a taking about it, old man,†said Frank soothingly. “Where did he go?â€
“There was a horse out in front, and he got into the saddle and pointed for the cañon trail. On his way back to Gold Hill, I reckon.â€
“Come on up to my room,†said Merry. “Clan, you and Pink had better come, too.â€
When they had the captain behind the closed door, Frank told him about the squabble in the back yard, and how, in a most surprising way, Guffey had been discovered under the empty packing case. Frank propounded his theory as to why Guffey was in that peculiar place, and produced the “hypoderm†in evidence.
Handy was experiencing an attack of nerves and was ready to see the hidden hand of the Gold Hill club in anything and everything that looked a little off color.
“There’s something back of his being here,†he declared, “and it’s a heap more than you imagine, Merriwell. Guffey didn’t blow into town for any good. He may use the dope, but you can gamble that he’s not using it to an extent that queers him in his work as coach.â€
It was several minutes before Frank and his chums could calm Handy sufficiently for a talk about football. At last, however, they began a study of the club eleven with the view of shifting the players around and getting better results.
“I wouldn’t drop any of the boys from the regular team, Chip,†said the captain earnestly.
“It would be a bad move at this late day,†Frank answered, “to put in some new men from the scrub team. If we had two weeks left I don’t know but I’d try it, but with only four days for good, hard practice, dropping anybody from the eleven would be a mistake. Win or lose, Handy, we’ll use the material we have. We can do a little shifting, though.â€
“I made a monkey of myself yesterday,†declared Handy, with a firm determination to shoulder all the consequences of his own mistakes, “and that’s what played the dickens with the quarter. But I was nervous, and the way the scrubs lit into us had me rattled. I’ve a notion all the boys felt the same way. We went into that game overconfident and careless; then, when we began getting the worst of it, we slopped over in the other direction and took our backsets too much to heart. We’ll do better to-morrow.â€
“You’ve got to, that’s all,†said Merriwell grimly. “What will happen if Gold Hill gets the best of it in next Saturday’s game?â€
“It would make the third time, hand-running, that we’ve gone down to defeat at the hands of that other crowd. If that happens, everybody in Ophir will be disgusted, and this athletic club of ours will go to the dogs.â€
“Is it as bad as that?â€
“It’s worse!†declared Handy. “If you had lived in this town for a year or two, you’d know more about the feeling that prevails regarding these football games.â€
“Then, if that’s the way you hook up, we’ve got to win.â€
“We have, if it takes a leg.â€
After two hours of thoughtful discussion, during which each individual player on the regular team was thoroughly studied, two or three shifts made in the line-up, and a little talk indulged in that renewed the captain’s ardor and determination, the meeting broke up.
For most of the regulars and second-string men, however, it was a blue Monday when they assembled in the gym for the afternoon’s work. Their faces were long and gloomy as they squatted around on the floor in their football togs and listened to a little sharp grilling from the captain.
Merriwell followed Handy. The faults and mistakes of the preceding Saturday afternoon he flashed before the player’s eyes in detail. There was terror in the souls of the regular eleven; but fears were relieved somewhat when not one of the team was publicly disgraced by being dropped to the scrub. At last, tingling in every nerve, the men were sent to the field for another contest with the second eleven.
And, this time, the regulars did their work admirably. The practice was secret, and no evil, greedy eyes were staring out from between the benches of the grand stand. The club eleven lit into the scrubs with a savage fury that swept all before them. Never once, in all the fiercebattling of the game, was the regular’s goal in danger. This was a romp to victory, but with none of the gala features of a romp about it. Intensity of purpose marked every play. And the final score was so many to nothing that the dusty, sweating, worn-out scrubs were awed and chastened.
Tuesday afternoon the work was even harder. The scrub team was strengthened by the addition of Ballard and Clancy, and while it was being hurriedly organized, farther down the oval of the field, the regulars were being run through the signals. Up and down the field they rushed in rehearsal of all the complicated attacks. The numbers, flung out by Merry, cracked like a blacksnake whip; and, with every crack, the players leaped to their work. Again and again the coach charged the team, now against one goal and now against the other.
After a brief rest the strengthened scrub teams appears. Against them the regulars are pitted for a whirlwind fight of half an hour, cut in two by an interval of two minutes.
The hardiest of the players flop over on the warm sand, utterly exhausted, when the whistle stops the playing. Merriwell is boring down into their endurance as no coach has ever done before. But they do not complain. They know he is doing it for the glory of Ophir.
That Tuesday-afternoon match was rendered brilliant by the playing of Owen Clancy at quarter. He and Ballard, encouraging the second eleven, gave the regulars a grapple that they will long remember.
Wednesday is a repetition of Tuesday, only worse in its grinding, gruelling labor, if that were possible. Like tigers, with sinews of steel and a suddenness of lightning, the regulars spring at the throats of the scrubs. Every man on the second eleven is putting up the fightof his life. He knows that the harder he can make it for the regulars, the more it will be for the glory of Ophir. Brilliantly supported by Clancy and Ballard and, along toward the end, by Merry at half, they bring out the very last ounce of power and ability which the club team has in store.
The regulars have possession of the ball. They smash into the scrubs like a living catapult, hunting from end to end of the scrub line for the one weak point. After thirty minutes of heartbreaking play, a whistle sounds a truce. The teams are rushed to the gym, quickly sponged, fresh recruits jump into the ranks of the scrubs, and once more the regulars are put to the relentless test.
“If we can live through this,†gasps one of the regulars as, the playing over for the day, he totters in the direction of the showers, “if we can live through this we’ll eat up any eleven on earth.â€
“Are you satisfied, Chip?†queried the weary, exultant Handy as he came, clothed for the street, out of the dressing rooms after the Wednesday game.
“Yes,†Merry answered, “we’ve got a bunch of winners. All aboard for Dolliver’s to-morrow afternoon.â€
“The word has been passed around, Chip, and we’ll all be ready.â€
Thursday afternoon Bradlaugh’s big car, and two other machines pressed into service, carried the Ophir eleven, three or four substitutes, and Chip Merriwell and his chums out along the old trail to Tinaja Wells.
A disappointment awaited Frank at Dolliver’s. He had counted upon meeting Darrel at the ranch, but Darrel, he found, had gone into Gold Hill that very morning.
Why was Darrel in Gold Hill? Certainly his unclehad not sent for him. The colonel was still clinging to Jode Lenning, and, so long as he did that, he could have no possible use for Darrel.
Merry, however, had too much on his mind to worry over the mysterious actions of Darrel. Curly was improving right along, and that was the main thing. He would undoubtedly be at the Ophir-Gold Hill game, and Merry could see him there.
Thursday there was nothing at all to do, with the exception of a little signal practice along toward sun-down. Nor was there any line-up or hard work on Friday—nothing but a five-mile cross-country trot in the forenoon, and in the afternoon nothing at all. It was the day before the game—a day to which the population of Ophir and Gold Hill had been looking forward for months.
The game was to be played on the Ophir field. The games of the two previous years had been won by Gold Hill on her own field, and it was deemed no more than fair that Ophir should have the third game on her grounds.
The fellows were to remain at Dolliver’s until one o’clock Saturday afternoon. At that hour the machines were to arrive for them and whisk them away to the field for the fight with their rivals.
There was not much hilarity among the lads. They were impressed—and a little oppressed—with the prospect of the work required of them on the next afternoon. They collected in groups, and, in low voices, talked of everything they could think of except football. And yet, the biggest and most constant thing in every fellow’s mind was the coming game.
Merry and Handy, along about eight in the evening,were a little apart from the players. They were considering Simeon Guffey for about the dozenth time.
“You’re fretting too much about the Gold Hill coach, old man,†said Frank.
“I’ve got a hunch that there’s something about the fellow we don’t understand,†answered the captain.
“If you’re going to worry about all the things you can’t understand,†Merry laughed, “you’re going to have your hands full.â€
Just at that moment Clancy came around a corner of the house.
“Guess who’s here, Chip!†said he.
“I’m in no mood to wrestle with conundrums, Clan,†was the answer.
“All right, then. It’s Colonel Hawtrey. He just rode up. His horse is at the hitching pole and he wants to see you at once—and privately.â€
“Hawtrey—to see me!†Frank muttered, as he hurried around the house and toward the trail in front.