Frank Merriwell, Juniors, Golden Trail | Page 2

scrubs, going up against the regulars' defense, found it impossible
to make any decisive gains. Vigor and rocklike endurance marked the
clashes, and both regulars and scrubs had to punt and punt again. Fake
plays were riddled by swift and sagacious end rushes, for one side or
the other, hurling attacks against the center were crushed and flung
back; and, more and more as the battle raged, it became evident that the
regular eleven, while good, were no whit better than the scrubs.
The fight in the first half was carried into the last minute of the play.
The whistle separated the combatants, and neither side had scored.
During the interval that followed Ballard sought to tell his dream,
Merriwell and Clancy, however, were in close and earnest conversation
regarding the players and had no time for anything not connected with
the game.
"With material like that to choose from, Chip," said Clancy, "it ought
not to be much of a trick to select an eleven that would put it all over
Gold Hill."
"From all I can hear, Clan," Merry answered, "the Gold Hill bunch is a
fast one. I don't know what we can do. The Ophirites are liable to hit,
their funny bone in the last half and turn the performance into a farce
comedy."
"Never again, Chip. Once was enough."
"What happens once is always liable to happen again," Frank answered,
"although I'm hoping for the best."

His fears were not realized. The last half of the game, although faulty in
spots, was, on the whole a creditable performance. Merriwell was more
than pleased. When Spink and Handy, dusty and breathless, halted on
their way to the showers and the dressing rooms to ask his opinion,
Merry gave them the praise that was their due.
"We can make up an eleven here that ought to do things to Gold Hill,
fellows," said he.
"They say that Gold Hill is so sure of getting our scalps for the third
time," said Spink, "that they haven't begun their fall work."
"Which makes everything look all the brighter for Ophir," laughed
Frank. "Too much confidence is worse than not enough. You seem to
think that I can help you, although I--"
"It's a cinch you can help us!" broke in Handy. "Wasn't your father the
star coach at Yale?"
A slight frown crossed Frank's face.
"Don't try to pin any of dad's medals on me, Handy," said Frank. "I
didn't inherit any of his couching ability. Dad gave me a good, clean
bringing-up. Ever since I've been old enough to waddle, he has made
me stand on my own feet. If you fellows are bound that I can help you,
I'll give some suggestions and do my best. I'll get the suggestions in
shape and give them to you in a day or so."
The regulars and scrubs, who had grouped themselves at a little
distance behind Spink and Handy, gave a delighted cheer. Frank,
putting away his pencil and paper, smiled as he watched them trot away
toward the gym.
"Now," said Ballard, with a show of injured dignity, "I wonder if you
fellows can spare a little of your valuable time?"
"What's biting you, Pink?" inquired Frank.

"It's a dream," said Clancy derisively. "Pink has been seeing things at
night, and he has been boiling over to tell us about it ever since this
practice game started. Why don't you get a dream book, you crazy,
chump," he added to Ballard, "and figure the visions out for yourself?"
"Or a joke book," said Frank. "You can do about as much figuring from
that as from anything else."
"Oh, blazes!" exclaimed Ballard. "Don't make light of this dream. I just
happened to remember, since we reached this grand stand, that I've had
it three nights in succession. When a dream comes to you three times
like that it's supposed to mean something."
"Sure," agreed Clancy, wagging his head; "it means that for three
nights you have--er--eaten not wisely but too well. How's that, Chip?
Pretty good, eh?" He straightened up, looked grave, and went on to
Ballard; "Dreams, William, are the result of tantrums in the tummy.
You load up a suffering organ with grub that's so rich it affects the
imagination; consequently, when the razmataz, in a state of coma,
projects itself into the medulla oblongata--"
Ballard, yelling wildly, made a jump for Clancy. Merry, however, had
already taken hint in hand.
"That sounds too much like Professor Phineas Borredaile," said Frank.
"Call off the dog, Clan;" and he smothered his red-headed chum and
pushed him down on the hard boards.
"I'll be good, Chip," murmured Clancy, in a stilted voice. "Take your
hands, off my face and let me breathe."
Frank released him with a laugh, and Clancy