They felt that if any one could pick an eleven from the club members and round them, into winning form, it was he, and he alone.
This was not the first practice game staged for Merriwell.

The first one had degenerated into a farce, for the spirit of fun had taken untimely grip of the players and a promising exhibition had gone to pieces on a reef of horseplay.

Spink and Handy, for the club, had waited upon Merry and tendered apologies, and a second game had been arranged.
Circumstances over which Merry had had little control had kept him away from that second game; and now, four days later, the Ophir eleven were gallantly retrieving themselves.
The two teams had ranged themselves across the field, and a scrub foot had booted the oval well down toward the regulars' goal.

A nervous full back waited to receive that opening kick, while his teammates rushed at him to form their flying screen of interference.

The ball evaded the arms that reached for it, while another back fell on it and kept it clear of the clutches of a scrub end.
Frank scrawled a note on the paper that lay on his knee.