At that instant the study call sounded. The others hastened away to their quarters.

Dan Dalzell stepped over to the handbowl, washing his hands, after which he went to his study-table and began to arrange his books.

"It's kind of lonely to sit here without old Darry," sighed Dan dismally.

"I hope he'll be here with me to-morrow evening. No; I don't either, though. I want him to stay over in hospital until there's no chance whatever that he'll have to wear an ugly scar through life."

It was three evenings later when Midshipman David Darrin returned to his own quarters in Bancroft Hall. By this time the surface wound on his face was healing nicely, and with ordinary care he would soon be without sign of scar.

"Pills (the surgeon) told me that I'll have to be careful and not let anything b.u.mp this face for days to come," remarked Dave, pointing to the strip of adhesive plaster that neatly covered his injury.

"Well, you don't need to b.u.mp anything," replied Dan quietly. "Hepson wants you on the gridiron the worst way, but he has told me that he won't even allow you to get into togs until Pills has certified that you're fit to play."

"It's tough," sighed Dave, then quietly began his studies.

It is a rare proceeding to send a midshipman to Coventry; a step that is never taken save for the gravest reasons. Dan, having fought, did not feel it necessary to bring Jetson's case before a cla.s.s meeting, and Jetson escaped Coventry. He was not cut, yet he soon discovered that the average cla.s.smate paid no more heed to him than appeared to be necessary for courtesy's sake.

After another week "Pills" consented to Dave Darrin's going out for regular gridiron practice. Dave needed the work badly, for the Navy team was now on the eve of the first game of the season.

Jetson, with no hope now of making the eleven this year, avoided the field for a few days.

The first game of the season took place on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. The opponent was Hanniston College. Ordinarily, in the past, Hanniston had been an easy enough opponent, though there had been years in which Hanniston had carried the score away from the field.

"How many of the regular team do you want to throw into the game against Hanniston, Mr. Hepson?" inquired Lieutenant-Commander Havens the night before the game.

"Every one of them, sir," Hepson answered the head coach. "Until we get into a real game, we can't be sure that we've the strongest eleven.

To-morrow's game will show us if we have made any mistakes in our selections."

Even though Hanniston was considered one of the lesser opponents, every man in the brigade speculated with great interest, that night, on the probable outcome of the morrow.

"Darrin will have a good chance to prove himself, a dub to-morrow,"

thought Midshipman Jetson darkly. "I hate to wish against the Navy, but I'll cheer if Darrin, individually, ties himself up in foozle knots!"

CHAPTER X

THE GRIDIRON START

On the day of the game the midshipmen talked eagerly, and mostly of football, through dinner in the great messhall of the brigade.

"Did any one see the Hanniston infants arrive?" demanded Page.

"Infants, eh!" called Joyce from the next table. "That shows you didn't see the visiting eleven."

"Why? Are they of fair size?" asked Farley.

"It took two 'buses to bring the regular eleven, besides the subs and all the howlers," retorted Joyce. "And the regular eleven, I am reliably informed, tip the scales at four tons."

"Oh, come, now, Joyce, shave off a ton or two," protested Farley.

"I won't take off more than fifty pounds, sir," retorted Joyce with mock stubbornness. "Say! The Hanniston fellows are enormous."

"Then they've run all to bones and haven't any brains," grinned Dan.

"After all, we don't mind mere bulk, for intelligence wins most of the games on the gridiron."

"As to their intelligence, I can't say," admitted Joyce. "At any rate, from the glimpse that I got of the Hans, I should say that they average two years older than our men."

"Let's throw up the sponge, then," proposed Dalzell demurely. "If we can't beat the visitors what's the use of playing them? It isn't even necessary to get into togs. We can send a note to the referee, and he can award the game to Hanniston."

"Fine!" broke in Hepson scornfully.

"However, I guess we aren't going to have any cinch to-day," joined in Midshipman Waite, from another table. "I have word from outside, by the way."

"What word?"

"Well, the Hanniston fellows have brought over some money with which to back up the howls they're making for their team. They're offering odds of ten to six that Hanniston wins."

"They stand to lose a lot of money," grinned Hepson.

"But here's the funny part of it," continued Waite. "You know, when the townspeople in Annapolis think they have a really good thing on us, they cover the money of visitors in any wagers on the games."

"Then here's hoping that the Annapolis townspeople win a lot to-day,"

laughed Midshipman Hepson.

"Yes, but," returned Waite, "what I hear from town is that the Annapolis townspeople have been driven to cover; that they aren't taking up the offers of the visiting Hanniston boys."

"Too bad!" sighed Dave Darrin. "And Annapolis needs the money so badly, too."

"Are we going to win?" asked Waite bluntly.

"Too early to tell you," replied Hepson coolly. "Ask me at supper to-night. But the townies won't wager any money on us this year, eh?"

"The Annapolis people have put up some, but not much," replied Waite.

"We're going to win, just the same," announced Dan Dalzell.

"Sure?" questioned several voices.

"Oh, yes! It's all settled now," laughed Midshipman Waite. "I've been waiting for Danny boy to tell us. Now, we know--we've heard from the hot-air meter."

There was a laugh in which Dan didn't join readily, though his face reddened considerably. Midshipman Dalzell was one of those who always believed that the Navy must win, just because it was the Navy. Some of the other midshipmen didn't go quite as far as that in their confidence.

"Better not call Danny boy names," advised Dave Darrin gravely. "He might be sulking at just the time when we need him this afternoon."

"That would be unmilitary," retorted Mr. Waite.

"Oh, no," said Dave lightly. "Even as good a soldier as Achilles sulked in his tent, you know."