Still Bob wavered, unwilling to take the step which, deep down in his heart, he knew would have to come. Merriwell showed no signs of impatience. With rare sympathy, he realized what a struggle must be going on in the man’s mind. The thought of all it would mean to him if, for any reason, _he_ were forced to give up football was appalling, and he knew that Hollister was even more devoted to the game. “I know how hard it is, Bobby,” he said quietly. “But after a little you’ll come to see that it’s the only thing for you to do. Football—any game, in fact—is a splendid thing when it keeps its proper proportions as something incidental to the college course. But the minute it begins to dominate a man, as it has done you to the exclusion of everything else, it’s time to cut it out. You didn’t come to Yale to play football, but to get your degree and the other benefits which a college course gives a man. Think how you’d feel if you were dropped at the very beginning of your senior year. Think of the humiliation of being thrown out with such a record as you have made this fall.” “I can’t even play in the Yale-Princeton game on Saturday?” Hollister questioned sadly. Dick shook his head firmly. “No, sir,” he returned with emphasis. “You give me your promise never to play football again while you’re in college, and I’ll do my very best to pull you through in your studies. How about it?” “All right,” Hollister said, in a low voice. “I promise.” “Good,” Dick smiled. “That’s the stuff. Now let’s get down to business.” He glanced swiftly at the clock. “An hour and a half before Latin,” he murmured. “We’ve got to get busy.” Before Hollister knew what he was doing, Dick had him sitting at the table, the open book before him, and together they proceeded to go through the day’s allotment of Horace. Merriwell did his work thoroughly, translating slowly and stopping to explain the derivation of every word about which Bob had the least doubt. He had a natural gift of making things plain, and in an hour’s time Hollister had acquired a pretty good notion of what it was all about. Then, after a hurried review of the chemistry lesson, they sallied forth to the lecture room. “I think you’ll do in the Horace, old fellow,” Dick assured him. “Just keep your head and take it slowly, and you’ll come out all right.” Such proved to be the case. About halfway through the hour, Professor Goodhue called Hollister’s name in a rather weary tone of voice, fully expecting a repetition of the absolute failures for which the fellow had become noted. To his amazement, Hollister arose slowly and gave a very good rendering of the passage, even to construing accurately the few words the dazed professor asked him. “That will do, Mr. Hollister,” the latter managed to say when Bob had finished. “Very good indeed. I should—er—like to congratulate you on the extraordinary improvement in your work.” “Thank you, sir,” Bob murmured, his face a bit red.