“It may make a lot of difference,” answered the oracle of the fifth. “Newbury may beat us, and they may not. If big Bumpus doesn’t bust, we’re going to have a solid line, and the ends are great! It’ll be a corking game all right, whichever wins. And you don’t want to go around saying we’re going to be licked!” “I don’t say it to anybody but you,” Dick interposed hastily. “You don’t want to say it to any one,” continued Mike, with a severity quite judicial. “Just try to make everybody think we’re going to win. You know how Phillips had us all scared when the fourth played Suffolk, with his talk about how big and strong they were, and how we couldn’t possibly down ’em, and all that, till we lost our nerve and almost let ’em beat us?” Dick remembered. “It’s the same with the big team; they’ve got to be encouraged. Harrison deserves it, too, for firing Jason.” This principle Mike had an opportunity to put into practice the next morning when he passed a knot of older boys gathered at the corner of the school building, where they waited for the nine o’clock bell to ring and meantime swapped news and jokes and covertly watched the girls who by twos and threes and fours passed on the other side of the street on the way to Miss Wheeler’s school. Eaton reached out and seized the boy by the shoulder. “Ticket for the game?” he demanded. “Got one,” said Mike, coolly, shaking himself free. “What do you say, Mike,” asked Wilmot; “are we going to beat Newbury?” “Sure thing, only they’ve got to get those forward passes down better.” “Do you hear that?” called Wilmot, as the boy trotted away. “Mike says we’re going to win. That settles it. No use to practice any more. It’s all up with Newbury.” “He’s trying to make us win; that’s more than can be said of you,” spoke Talbot, disapprovingly. “What’s the matter with me?” protested Wilmot. “Don’t I spend half my time tagging round after you fellows as manager?” “A bum manager!” grumbled Horr. “Where are those W sweaters?” “Mike is doing his little best to build up a school sentiment behind us,” continued Talbot, “and you—well, you’re laughing at us most of the time. Mike knows what he’s talking about, too, when it comes to football.” Wilmot assumed an indignant manner. “That’s a base libel. I’m trying to keep you from being over-confident.” The bell rang and the group began to move. “I’d like to see a few signs of over-confidence,” said Harrison. “Everything seems to me to be going the other way.” For the mid-week practice Yards brought out a team of Westcott graduates from college, who could furnish to the reorganized school eleven something sturdy on which to try their plays. Mac ran his game with few errors and handled punts like a veteran; the ends got three out of four forward passes; Bumpus wrestled valiantly against a big sophomore in the line, puffing and blowing and perspiring, but fully holding his own. The result was in the main encouraging.