The story of his renunciation of football and his steady application to his books seemed to have become known to the faculty. Certain it was that, one and all, they realized what an effort he was making to stick with the class, and most of them did their best to help him along. As for Merriwell, every minute he could spare was devoted to coaching Bob. The latter almost lived in Dick’s rooms. Every evening they went over the work for the next day together, Dick patiently explaining every point, bolstering up Hollister’s failing courage, making a regular hermit of himself for the sake of the other man’s future. In the afternoons Bob spent his time grinding on the back work, for occasionally the professors had an annoying way of having little quizzes which covered the subjects they had gone over that term. That was the hardest part of it all, to sit alone with a book before him, knowing all the time that the others were out on the field where he longed to be more than anywhere else in the world. At first he had to grit his teeth and exercise the utmost self-control to keep his mind from wandering; but, after a little, it came easier, though he was never wholly resigned. At last came the day of the Yale-Princeton game. Hollister wondered desperately whether he would have to stay away from the field that afternoon. It seemed as if that would be more than he could bear. In the morning he broached the subject to Merriwell. “About the game this afternoon, Dick,” he began hesitatingly. “It don’t seem as if I could study while that’s going on. Couldn’t I go down and watch it, just this once?” Dick looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Bobby?” he asked slowly. “Wouldn’t you feel worse on the field, not being able to play, than you would if you stayed away?” “Gee, no!” exclaimed Hollister. “Even if I don’t play, there’d be some satisfaction watching it.” “Come on, then,” Merriwell said quickly. “You’ve certainly done well enough to take the afternoon off.” Thus it was that Hollister sat in the tonneau of Dick’s car as the _Wizard_ tore down to the field that afternoon. Tempest and Blair Hildebrand sat with him, Rudolph Rose crumpled his long legs in the body of the car at their feet, while Teddy Baxter clung precariously to the running board. Hollister felt a thrill of the old joyful enthusiasm as the car whirled through the streets. Once more he seemed to be one of them, and, as he entered the grounds and swept his eye over the already filling stands, he sniffed the air like a war horse that scents combat from afar.