DICK IS SUMMONED
The Kentfield cadets accepted the invitation of their late opponents, to stay and see them break training.
"As long as we didn't have a chance at the championship I'm glad you fellows have," confided Captain Russell of Mooretown to Dick. "Of course we'd have liked to have beaten you chaps, but I guess we over-trained. We haven't any regular coaches, and we did the best we could."
"You sure did," assented Dick heartily. "It's too bad you went back. You were fine early in the season."
"I know it, and that shows that it pays to have regular coaches who know their business. How in the world did you fellows manage to get Martin and Spencer?"
"Oh, we worked it by a forward pass," replied the young millionaire with a laugh.
There was jolly fun at Mooretown that night, in spite of the defeat. The team burned their suits at a big bonfire, and danced around the blaze like Indians, singing college songs and cheering their opponents who, in turn shouted for their plucky but unfortunate enemies.
Then came a long and rather dreary ride back to Kentfield in a way-train that stopped at every station. But the boys enlivened the trip by songs and cheers so that they were not very lonesome.
"Well Dick, I must get back in the morning," said Mr. Hamilton to his son when they said good-night in Dick's room.
"You won't try to see Duncaster again?"
"No, it would be of little use. He is evidently set in his ways. My only hope is that he doesn't turn over to the other side. If he does——"
The millionaire paused.
"Well?" asked Dick suggestively.
"The Hamilton fortune will be a thing of the past, son."
"As bad as that?"
Mr. Hamilton nodded.
"But I'm not going to give up," he declared. "I have some other irons in the fire, and I may be able to forge them to the shape I want. It's going to be hard work, though, and it would be much easier if I had the Duncaster stock. By the way, you say that Porter chap, whose father is working against us, attends here?"
"Yes, but I fancy he won't after to-morrow," said Dick significantly.
He was right. Sam Porter's room was vacant the next day, and he left no word of where he had gone. He knew his trick had been discovered, and that it had gone for naught.
Several days later he sent a note to his former crony Weston, asking to see him, but Weston refused.
"I was his friend once," he said to Dick, "but I'm done with him now. I'm for the football team first, last and forever!"
"And you're one of our best players!" exclaimed the young captain heartily, for he appreciated what it meant to break with Porter.
Football matters at Kentfield were now drawing to a close. There was but one more game to play—that of Blue Hill, but in the eyes of the cadets it was the most important of the season because of what the outcome carried with it. There was a tie for the championship between our hero's football eleven and that of the academy which had sent the insulting letter that resulted in such a change of policy.
"Get ready for the last week of practice," ordered Coach Martin, on the Monday following the Mooretown game. "It's going to be hard, too, but I don't want any one to over-train. Take it a bit easy when you find yourself tiring."
"Yes, we want you in the pink of perfection Saturday," added Mr. Spencer.
There followed days of the most careful preparation. It was like getting ready for the final great battle between two rival armies. Football suits were looked to, for a rip in a jacket or a sweater might spoil a play at a critical point. The lads replaced the worn cleats on their shoes, that they might brace themselves when the Blue Hill players hurled themselves at the Kentfield line.
As for their physical condition, the cadets were looked over by the trainers and coaches as if they were race horses. Tender ankles were carefully treated and bandaged. Sprains were rubbed in the most scientific manner, and did any one complain of a little indisposition the coaches were up in alarm.
And the boys were in the "pink of condition." Never had they felt finer nor more able to do battle for the championship. Never were they more confident, for, somehow, Dick had talked them into the firm belief that they were going to win.
As for our hero, he had a worry that he kept to himself, and, now that his father had returned to Hamilton Corners, the lad let it prey on his mind even more than he had when the millionaire was at the academy.
"Our fortune in danger," mused Dick. "That sure is tough luck. Not that money is everything, or really much in this world. But, after you've gotten used to having it, I guess it's hard to spin along without it. But perhaps it won't be so bad as dad fears. I would certainly hate to give up my steam yacht, and I may have to leave Kentfield. Whew! That would pull a lot!" and he sat staring in moody silence at the walls of his tastefully decorated room.
There was a movement at Dick's feet and Grit half arose to poke his cold nose into his master's listless hand. The lad started.
"Grit, old boy!" he murmured and the animal whined in delight. "Whatever happens they can't take you from me," went on the young millionaire. "But there's Rex. Maybe I can't afford to keep a horse. Oh, but I'd hate to part with him!"
He could not keep back just a suspicion of tears from his eyes, as he stroked the short ears of the bulldog, who seemed to know that something was amiss.
"Oh, well, what's the use of crying over spilled milk before you come to the bridge!" Dick exclaimed at length. "I'm not going to worry until it's time; and that isn't yet. Guess I'll go for a canter on Rex. That will clear the cobwebs away."
He was soon galloping over the country, glad to be alone for a little while to think over the problems that were bothering him. As the noble animal galloped along around the lake path, and Dick felt the cool November wind on his cheeks, somehow there came to him a feeling of peace.
"After all, it may come out right," he whispered as he patted the neck of the horse. "And I'm going to have one more try at Duncaster. I won't undertake to see him. I'll write him a letter and explain some things he doesn't understand. Maybe it will just pull him the right way."
The thought was an inspiration to him, and he turned Rex about and galloped to the stables.
"Well, what's all the correspondence about Dick?" asked Paul that evening, as his chum was busily scratching away in their room. "I thought you answered Miss Hanford's last letter yesterday."
"Humph! Seems to me you've been doing something in the way of writing letters yourself. But this is business. I'm making a last appeal to Duncaster."
Dick was not very hopeful as he mailed the epistle to Hardvale.
It was the day of the Blue Hill Game, and final practice, save for a little "warm-up" on the gridiron, just before time should be called, had been held. The coaches had issued their last instructions, Dick had given his men a little talk, and all that could be done had been done.
"It's do or die now," grimly remarked the young captain. "We're fit to the minute."
"Have you heard from Duncaster?" asked Paul.
"No, and I don't expect to. He'll keep the stock I expect, or trade it to the Porter crowd. It was a slim chance, but it didn't make good."
"Well," remarked Paul, a little later, when Dick had been nervously pacing about the room. "I suppose we might as well go out on the gridiron."
"It's a bit early," objected Dick. "The Blue Hill crowd won't be here for an hour yet."
There came a knock on the door, and Toots stood there saluting between the strains of "Marching Through Georgia."
"Telegram for you, Mr. Hamilton—it came collect," announced the janitor.
"Humph. Can't be from dad, he always pays his messages," remarked Dick, as he handed over the money, and tore open the envelope. When he had read the few words he gave a gasp of astonishment.
"What's the matter?" asked Paul quickly. "Bad news."
"No. Good!" cried Dick. "Listen. This is from Mr. Duncaster—no wonder he sent it collect. He says: 'Have your letter. I will grant your request and sell you the stock. Come and see me at once, as I am leaving for Europe for my health. I go to-night.'"
"Then you'd better hustle out to Hardvale!" cried Paul. "Hurray! That's great."
Slowly Dick crushed the telegram in his hand.
"I can't go," he said slowly.
"Why not?"
"I haven't time to go out there and get back to play the game—and—I'm going to play the game!"