A few minutes later they crowded into two yellow trolley cars and went bouncing and swaying out toward the Academy, a mile from town. Dick had held a few hurried words with Stanley and Blash in the lobby. Rusty, it seemed, had disappeared while they had been having lunch in a white-enamelled place down the block and hadn’t turned up since. “He’s probably up to some idiotic tomfoolery,” grumbled Stanley, “and we’ll have to go to the police station later and bail him out, I suppose. Well, good luck, Dick! Hope you get into it. If you do, remember the Maine and all that sort of thing!” The squad changed into football togs in a room assigned to their use in the Academy gymnasium and at a few minutes past two went across the elm-shaded school yard to the athletic field beyond. A tall youth with an embarrassed manner and a prominent Adam’s apple, the assistant manager of the Phillipsburg team, personally conducted them. The game was scheduled for half-past two and already the stands were well sprinkled with spectators. A cheering section of some hundred or so Parkinsonians was already in place and the Brown-and-White trotted onto the field to a quite noisy reception. Three squads took the gridiron for signal drill and the punters got busy. Dick accompanied the latter and punted and caught for a good fifteen minutes, getting rather warm during the proceedings. Phillipsburg arrived at two-twenty and hustled out for a warming-up. By that time the stands were about filled and the cheering was on in earnest. Then the teams retired to their benches, the captains met in midfield, shook hands and watched the flicking of a coin, and Bob Peters waved toward the south goal. “Means we won the toss,” commented Jerry Wendell, right tackle. “Well, here goes!” Dick laid strong hands on Wendell’s sweater and the latter squirmed out like a moth from a chrysalis. CHAPTER XII THE PHILLIPSBURG GAME There were not as many in attendance at the game as was usual at Parkinson, although Phillipsburg was a fair-sized city and Warne only an overgrown town. Perhaps the fact that Phillipsburg Academy was a very long mile from the city had something to do with the meagreness of the audience. At all events, aside from the rival cheering sections the stands showed long empty stretches, and Cardin, who shared an end of the bench with Dick, resented it. “Guess they must think this is a practice game,” he grumbled. “Well, Mr. Driscoll seems to think so, too,” said Dick. “He says we’re all to have a show before it’s over.” “He’ll forget that, though,” replied the other pessimistically, “when we need a score to tie or something. Coaches are always making cracks like that and then forgetting ’em. Bet you I won’t get in, Bates, and bet you you won’t.” Dick shook his head. “I might bet about you, but I wouldn’t wager an old straw hat on my chances. Still, he _said_ we would. There we go!”