"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 smoothed himself out. "I was only expounding," explained the red-headed chap, "and now that the prof isn't around to do it, a substitute has to take hold."