THE ACCUSATION
"Come on, Dick!" cried Paul excitedly, as he burst into the room where his chum was industriously boning away over the pages of his trigonometry. "Hurry up!"
"What's the rush, son?" calmly asked the young millionaire.
"Haven't you heard? The list of the Varsity players has just been posted in the gym."
"Who told you?"
"Toots. He was whistling 'Just Before the Battle, Mother,' when I spotted him, and he sung out that the list was up. I want to see if my name is there."
"It sure is—you played your head off yesterday," declared Dick.
"That's no sure sign. I wish I had your chances."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dick. Yet, deep down in his heart he could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, he might be put on the scrub. He had played his best, but he had made some errors, and one fumble. Yet it would seem that his run and touchdown would count for much.
"Aren't you ever coming?" asked Paul. "Jove! I can't wait."
"Sure I'm coming," answered his roommate, as he tossed the book upon a heap of others. "No use getting excited though."
It was the day after the try-out game, and the coaches after a long and none too easy process of elimination had arrived at some definite results. They had made up a tentative Varsity team.
As Dick and Paul hurried across the campus toward the gymnasium, they saw many other students bent on the same errand as themselves, for the news had quickly spread, and each cadet who had football aspirations was anxious to see if he was one of the lucky eleven.
There was such a crowd about the bulletin board that for a time Dick and his chum could not get near it. They heard many names called out though, for the second team was posted as well as the first.
"There's Beeby—lucky dog—he's made it!" exclaimed someone.
"I thought he was too fat," came in disappointed tones from Roy Haskell, who coveted the centre rush's place.
"And Hall—he's on."
"Yes, and there's Dutton and Stiver, both on the first team."
"Say—look—Teddy hasn't made it!"
"Get out!"
"Sure not! Look, he's on the scrub."
"Poor Teddy. That's because of that fumble yesterday. Who's got his place?"
"I can't see. Oh, yes, it's Coleton!"
"Say, did you hear that?" asked Paul in a low voice of his chum.
"Yes, it's bad news. But Teddy will be on before we get through the season. He's a better all around player than Coleton. Can you get up there now?"
"I guess so. Come on. Say, let a fellow up, will you?" begged Paul of those about him.
As they were worming their way up they heard another piece of news.
"Porter is off," remarked one lad.
"I thought he'd be," came from Jim Watkins. "He made two bad fumbles yesterday, and he isn't quick enough for an end."
"Can you see, Dick?" asked Paul, as he clung to the side of his companion. "Is your name there."
"I don't know yet—Hey, Frank, get your head out of my way for a second; will you?"
"Sure thing, Dick. Tough about Teddy; isn't it?"
"Yes, but don't worry. We'll have him back."
"I hope so."
"Now can you see?" implored Paul.
"Yes, your name——"
Dick paused a moment.
"Well!" panted his roommate.
"Is there all right. You're on the Varsity."
"What position?"
"Left guard—where you wanted to play."
"But what about you, Dick?"
"Oh, I'm down at quarter all right," and from the calm way in which he said it those who heard him would never have imagined that Dick's heart had almost stopped beating when, for a brief moment, he thought he had caught sight of his name on the second list.
"Good, old man!" cried Paul fervently as he clasped his chum's hand. "I knew you'd make it. Now we'll see what sort of a team we'll have with the two changes. Are those the only ones made?"
"Yes, Porter and Naylor are off."
"Who's got Porter's place?"
"Hal Foster—a good fellow, too."
The throng surged about the bulletin board, newcomers arriving every minute, and all the cadets making various observations as they were pleased or disappointed. Teddy Naylor was not in sight. He had heard the news, and in the bitterness of his heart he kept to himself for a while.
Yet he did not complain. Teddy played the game fairly, and he was a loyal son of Kentfield. He was willing to defer to the judgment of the coaches—yet no one but himself knew how he longed to be among the first squad, and with a grim setting of his lips he resolved to make it before the big games were played.
"Well, come on," invited Paul to Dick. "I'll treat you to a soda on the strength of this."
"Don't you think it will put us out of training?"
"One can't. We've got to celebrate in some way."
The two chums strolled across the campus arm in arm, toward a spot where an enterprising dealer, well aware of the desire for sweets on the part of the students, had set up a little confectionery shop.
As Paul and his chum neared it they saw, walking toward them, Porter and Weston. The cronies were talking earnestly together.
"I wonder if Porter's heard?" ventured Paul.
"If he hasn't he soon will. I'm sorry for him. He's a brilliant player, but careless. He may come back before the season is over."
"He isn't much of an addition to the team—too snobby for me," spoke Paul in a low voice.
Porter suddenly seemed to become aware of Dick's presence, for Weston called his attention to it. Glancing up quickly, a black look passed over the features of the rich youth. Then striding ahead of his companion, he confronted our hero.
"Well, you've heard the news I suppose?" he snarled.
"About the announcements being made?" inquired Dick gently.
"No—about me being off the team."
"Yes, I'm sorry, but perhaps——"
"Oh, yes; you're sorry!" snapped Porter. "But I notice that your name is down all right."
"Yes," and Dick controlled himself by an effort, for the tone was insulting.
"We all know why you're on the Varsity. It isn't because of your star playing."
"I never claimed to be a star," was the calm answer, "but I probably played well enough to be picked."
"No, you didn't!" fairly shouted Porter. "You were picked because it is your money that's paying the salaries of the coaches and they were afraid if they didn't pick you that they'd lose their jobs. That's why you're on the Varsity, Dick Hamilton, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!"
Porter, with a sneer on his puffed and red face, swung around angrily, and started off.
"Wait one minute, Mr. Porter," called Dick in a strangely quiet voice. "I want to say something to you."
"No, let me say it," begged Paul quickly, as Porter turned and faced them.