“Ah, yes. I should have remembered. Well, I’m sure they will win,” and, with this cheering remark, the head of Randall passed on, thinking of a new book on the history of Sanskrit that he contemplated writing.
Out from their rooms, or the gymnasium, poured the athletes, eager as young colts, and as confident as all young lads are. Tom Parsons was fully himself again, Dr. Marshall’s treatment having put him on his feet. All efforts to learn more about the “doped” bottle of medicine had been dropped, and very few in the college even knew about it.
Sid, too, was trained to the minute, and the others, on whom Randall based her hopes, gave every promise of making good. Yet there was always the chance of a “fluke,” and Holly and Kindlings were desperately nervous as they checked record after record, cast up table after table of points, trying to figure out a more sure system for Randall to win.
The last of the practice was over. The boys had done all that was humanly possible to warrant their success. Now it all depended on the final outcome.
The athletes were to go to Tonoka Lake Park in autos, which had been supplied by some of the wealthier students of Randall. The rank and file would go in trolley cars, or any other way that suited them.
“Well, we can’t do any more,” remarked Holly to Kindlings, as they stood together, ready to start for the field. “We’ve done our best, and the rest lies with our lads.”
“Oh, they’ll make good, all right; don’t worry,” spoke Kindlings confidently. “Bean Perkins has a lot of new songs to cheer ’em with, and then with the band playing, our colors flying, the crowd yelling, and the girls looking pretty, why, we can’t lose.”
“Cross your fingers,” murmured Holly superstitiously, with a short laugh. “Cross your fingers, Dan, old man.”
“All up!” sung out Dutch Housenlager, as the autos came rolling up to the gymnasium. “All up, fellows. It’s do or die, now.”
“All ready!” yelled Bean Perkins. “A last cheer before we meet ’em at the grounds, fellows.”
The cheer came with resounding energy, and when it had died away, some one called for “_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!_” “Either We Conquer, or we Die!”
The sweetly solemn strains of the Latin song rang out over the campus, as the competing team rolled away in the autos, waving their hands at their fellows.