Yardley was in the final throes of excitement, an excitement that approached the border of hysteria as Saturday drew nearer and nearer. Rumors of all kinds filled the air. Furniss, Broadwood’s clever left-end, who, it was generally agreed, would cause more trouble to Yardley’s end-running game than any other member of the rival team, was down with mumps and wouldn’t be able to play. Furniss was not down with mumps; at least, not that Furniss; it was a younger brother in the Junior Class who was ill. Broadwood had gone all to pieces after the Forest Hill game; had played too hard and was in the middle of an awful slump. Broadwood had showed up better at practice on Wednesday than any day all season. Simms was a nervous wreck and wouldn’t begin the game Saturday. Simms never felt better in his life, and was as cool as a cucumber. Burtis was out of the game, inflammation having set in in his broken wrist. Burtis’s injury was doing finely and he would at least start the game for Yardley. Stark was having trouble with the Office and might not be allowed to play against Broadwood; his case was to come up at faculty meeting Friday night. Stark was all square with the faculty and anyone who said otherwise didn’t know what he was talking about!

And so it went, one rumor crowding on the heels of another until it took a good part of one’s time keeping up with the gossip! Tuesday’s practice was held in secret and so was Wednesday’s. Most of the time was devoted to familiarizing the team with the new signals and smoothing out the plays to be used on Saturday. Those two days were hard ones and everyone was kept on the jump every minute. The actual scrimmage was short and often interrupted. On Wednesday night there was a signal drill in the gymnasium. The doors were closed more as a matter of habit than anything else, since it was a well understood thing that none save the team, the coaches and trainer were to enter. Consequently when, toward the end of the blackboard instruction, Manager Davis suddenly sprinted across the floor and up the stairs to the running track and spent ten minutes poking around in corners for spies he was well laughed at.

“But I did see him,” protested Perky excitedly. “I saw his head right up there at the curve of the balcony. Had some sort of a cap on and he was peeking over the railing!”

“You imagined it,” said Merriwell. “Anyhow, if you did see someone where the dickens did he get to?”

Davis couldn’t answer that, though, and finally he acknowledged that he might have been mistaken; that since the Gibson affair he had had spies on the brain, so to speak.

The Duke was in the throes of composition that evening, having at last settled down to the writing of the themes, when Cotton, who had disappeared a half-hour before with a vague mention of the library, returned unostentatiously with a book. The Duke glanced up incuriously, his mind on his work, favored Cotton with a brief and somewhat hostile stare, and was in the act of returning his gaze to the paper before him when a detail of the other’s attire caught his eye.

“Did you know you’d torn your coat there at the pocket?” he asked.

Cotton pulled his coat quickly around and looked at the rip.

“Yes, I—I did that this morning,” he answered carelessly. “I caught it on a door knob.”

But The Duke was already immersed again in his labor, scowling at the sheet and muttering as he wrote.

The next day the janitor found a small round window in an alcove off the running-track in the gymnasium swinging open. Not having heard of Davis’s hallucination, however, he merely fastened it again and thought nothing of it.

The weather turned mild on Thursday, and when in the afternoon the team held open practice and the school lined the ropes and cheered and sang for a full half-hour, the warm sunlight and gentle southerly breeze suggested baseball rather than football. Later the fellows crowded about the front of the gymnasium and cheered some more, cheered every member of the team individually, cheered Coach Payson and Andy Ryan and Manager Davis and the two rubbers, and cheered long and loud and repeatedly for “Yardley! Yardley! YARDLEY!”

In the evening there was a grand mass-meeting, the supreme gathering of the season, with the whole team seated about the platform and the musical clubs grouped behind them, with Mr. Payson and Mr. Collins and Mr. Bendix for guests of honor and Andy Ryan peeping out from a corner, and with the President of the First Class, Mr. Gerald Pennimore, acting as master of ceremonies. The Assembly Hall was filled long before the hour set for the meeting. The audience was in high feather, and while it waited for the proceedings to formally commence it sang and cheered and stamped and indulged in mild “rough-house” to its heart’s content.

Promptly at seven-thirty the team and the musical clubs filed on to the platform, followed by the head coach and the faculty members, and Gerald held up a hand for silence. As the fellows were busily cheering the players, Gerald had to stand there patiently several minutes before he could make himself heard. Even then he had to wait while a cheer was given “for Pennimore, fellows! And make it good!”

Gerald’s address was short and earnest. He asked for the loyal support of the team, whether in victory or defeat, and introduced Mr. Collins. The Assistant Principal, trim and smiling, said about what he usually said on such occasions, was duly applauded, and yielded to Captain Merriwell. Merriwell was very earnest, but, not being a fluent speaker, made poor going and relied more on repetition than variety. However, the spirit of his discourse met with enthusiastic approval, and after he had returned to his seat it was some time before Coach Payson found a chance to have his say. The coach started out in a rather jocular mood and told two or three stories that set the audience shouting with laughter. In the end, however, with a sudden change to gravity, he said: “I’d like to be able this evening to assure you all that we are going to win on Saturday, fellows, but I can’t. Frankly, to my mind this year’s contest is more in doubt than any contest for two years. I don’t know whether we’ll win or lose, fellows. Broadwood has a far better team than she had last year. She’s farther advanced, is playing together well and is powerful. In weight she has the better of us. So far, her record beats ours. On the other hand, we have a team that has not yet played as well as it is able to play——”

A shout of approval broke forth.

“——and a team that has strong possibilities. It isn’t a great team to-day judged by Yardley standards, but it may be a great team on Saturday. It’s a well-rounded team, a team of hard-working, willing players, every one of whom is ready to do his utmost—and a little more—for the school the day after to-morrow. And now it’s up to the school to help the team, fellows. I want you all to believe in it, to stand back of it, to encourage it by thought and action every minute between now and the last whistle on Saturday. (Cheers.) We’re going to play the game on foreign soil, so to speak, but whatever handicap that proves to us can be offset by your support. During the game let the team know that you’re there and right with them all the time. Don’t cheer just to make a noise, and don’t cheer just to rattle the other fellow, but cheer because you want your team to win and want to tell them so. And don’t stop cheering if the luck goes against them. If they find themselves losing they’ll play all the harder. Do the same, fellows; if the team gets in a hole, cheer all the harder—until it’s out!”

The applause was so loud and prolonged that the coach had to wait a minute before he could go on.

“I guess that’s about all I have to say. I want to thank you all on my behalf, just as Captain Merriwell has thanked you on behalf of the team, for the way you’ve stood behind me all the season, just as you’ve stood behind me so many seasons previous. It’s a great thing for a coach to feel that the school has confidence in him. There are always moments of discouragement, and at such moments the loyalty of the school is what helps most. Saturday will show whether our team is a great team or merely a good team, fellows. But whether we win or lose it will still be the team just the same!”

In the midst of the cheering that followed, the Banjo and Mandolin Club started “Fighting for Old Yardley,” and the Glee Club took it up and presently the whole hall was singing:

The second verse followed, and by this time the instruments were quite drowned out by the voices that roared the words of the song. At the end Gerald arose and, with upheld hand, smilingly begged silence. When, finally, the appeal was heeded he called on Mr. Bendix, and the Physical Instructor made a rather dry little speech, fortunately as brief as dry. Then someone called “Simms! We want Simms!” and the meeting took up the cry with laughter and approval. Simms, very red of face, shook his head in grinning embarrassment, but the demand increased, and Gerald went across and held out his hand to the quarter. Simms, however, thrust his own hands in his pockets and shook his head vehemently. The meeting laughed, but persisted. Gerald was seen to bend down and speak to Simms, and at last the quarter rather indignantly jumped up and strode to the front of the platform. The shouts died suddenly, and a couple of hundred of smiling faces confronted him.

“I can’t make a speech, and you fellows know it,” said Simms accusingly. “But Pennimore says I’ve got to say something to shut you up. So I’ll just say that if you make half as much noise Saturday when you cheer as you have to-night ragging me we can’t help winning!”

Simms nodded and strode back to his chair, while the audience laughed and cheered and stamped. Then someone demanded, “Andy! We want Andy Ryan!” and eventually Andy had to stand up at the back of the platform and make a bow. But the cries of, “Speech, Andy! Speech!” fell on deaf ears. The Glee Club leader consulted with the leader of the Banjo and Mandolin Club while the turmoil continued, and the musicians began to pick at their instruments. But evidently the meeting was not yet ready for songs. “We want more speeches!” declared a voice in front. “A-a-ay! More speeches!” agreed the hall at large. Feet began to stamp in time to the refrain: “Speeches, speeches, we want speeches! Speeches, speeches, we want speeches!” Suddenly a voice at the left of the room, and it sounded a lot like Harry Merrow’s, cried, “Burtis! Burtis! We want Burtis!”

A howl of approval thundered forth. The clamor took on new strength. “Burtis! Burtis! We want Burtis!” declared the assembly. Feet stamped wildly, and fellows at the back of the hall stood up in order to shout louder. Gerald turned and searched with his gaze for Kendall, who, sitting in the second row, had slunk down behind the broad back of Pete Girard. “Burtis! Burtis! We want Burtis!” clamored the throng. Finally Jensen and Marion, who were seated on either side of Kendall, strove to drag him to his feet. The audience applauded them. Girard arose and dragged his chair away, revealing Kendall, red of face, striving mightily to escape publicity. Gerald spoke to him, and Kendall got up and bowed awkwardly and sank into his seat again. But the school was not satisfied. “Speech, Burtis! We want a speech!” “Kick us a speech, Burtis!” Kendall, smiling wanly, was seen shaking his head at Gerald, who was bending over him and evidently trying to persuade him to say something. The turmoil continued, gathering in volume rather than diminishing. Gerald had Kendall by his well arm now, and was pulling him out of the chair. Reluctantly Kendall allowed himself to be conducted to the front of the platform. Gerald, smiling, waved his hand and stepped back. The hall quieted quickly, and a most appalling silence succeeded the tumult. Kendall, no longer blushing, but white-cheeked from fright, began to speak. None, however, save those in the front rows could hear him, although the hall was so still that one might have heard a pin drop. Finally, “Louder, please!” called a distant voice. “You’re misjudging the distance!” There was a laugh at that and even Kendall smiled rather tremulously, and when he went on his voice had gained strength.

“I’ve been saying that I never made a speech before,” he said, “and so you’ll please excuse me now. I—I hope we will win the game, and I’m sure we fellows on the team will do the best we know how. Thank you.” He bowed and turned. At that moment a small Prep at the back of the hall piped up:

“How’s your arm, Burtis?”

Kendall turned back, looked in the direction of the voice and replied quite naturally: “Getting along nicely, thank you.”

A howl of delight and laughter arose as Kendall, blushing again now, fairly scuttled to his seat and disappeared from sight, while a deep voice down front was heard to proclaim, “Anyway, he doesn’t kick with his arm!” At which the laughter increased.

The demand for more speeches began again, but Gerald sprang to the edge of the platform and asked for a cheer for Yardley. It came with a will. Then the players were cheered one after another, beginning with Captain Merriwell and ending with the last substitute, and Coach Payson was cheered, and Andy Ryan, and, finally, “The team, fellows! A long cheer, and get into it!”

Afterward the music began, and they went through the half-dozen songs selected for the game, finally ending up with “The Years Roll On,” every fellow on his feet, many of them a little choky as they sang. More cheers then, somewhat indiscriminate, a scraping of settees and feet, and the meeting was over.

Gerald and Kendall met in the corridor and walked back to Clarke together. In front of Oxford some fifty or sixty fellows were still singing and cheering, declaring at intervals that “We want a parade! We want a parade!” When Gerald and Kendall reached the steps of Clarke, Mr. Collins was doing his best to persuade the throng that it wanted nothing of the sort, that what it really wanted to do was to go to its rooms and behave itself. From the fact that the singing gradually died away it may be inferred that Mr. Collins was right.

“Why did you make me get up there and try to talk?” demanded Kendall aggrievedly as the two climbed the stairs.

“Good practice,” replied Gerald imperturbably. “It’s a handy thing to know how to make a speech.”

“I guess I’ll never have to make many,” returned Kendall.

Gerald smiled knowingly. “You never can tell,” he said.