Dick Merriwell's Fighting Chance
The Split in the Varsity
9781465648396
108 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
The comfortable sitting room in Durfee Hall, occupied by Dick Merriwell and his Texas chum, Brad Buckhart, was filled to overflowing. Sprawling among the cushions of the divan was Rudolph Rose, handsome, high-spirited, and rather quick-tempered, but happy in the knowledge that he had at last conquered the latter failing and thereby won a place in Merriwell’s friendship. Close beside him was Terry Baxter, quiet, almost too serious, but with a keen sense of humor which showed in the appreciative gleam in his brown eyes and the occasional terse, pithy remarks which he uttered in a solemn manner, but which invariably sent the others into an uproar. Eric Fitzgerald, slim, slight, and curly haired, dangled his legs from one end of the table. He was so full of vim and life and go that he reminded one of a particle of quicksilver, forever on the move; and on the rare occasions when he did settle down for a moment, he usually perched himself somewhere in a temporary manner, as if he were only pausing for an instant before making another flight. Samp Elwell, the Hoosier, whose dry wit was a source of never-ending delight to his friends, occupied the piano stool. Across the room sat his chum, Lance Fair, who was not nearly so unsophisticated as his smooth, rosy cheeks and almost girlish manner would lead one to imagine. Buckhart was hunched down on the back of his neck in one of the big easy-chairs near the table, while Merriwell himself was tilted back against the wall in the desk chair, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth and a smile curving the corners of his sensitive mouth. “You fellows ought to have been in Pierson’s classroom this morning,” he remarked. “After the lecture he started in to quiz us, and happened to spy Hollister gazing dreamily out of the window. I suppose Bob was thinking out some new football stunt. Anyway, he was miles away from Roman history, and Pierson caught him. “‘Mr. Hollister,’ he said, in that short, snappy way he has, ‘can you mention one memorable date in Roman history?’ “Bob came out of his trance with a jump and snapped back without thinking, ‘Anthony’s with Cleopatra, sir.’ It brought down the house.” There was a shout of delighted laughter, and when it had died down Samp Elwell looked up, grinning. “He did,” chimed in Fitzgerald from the table. “Piercy was mad as thunder. It isn’t the first time Bob’s flunked by a long shot, either. He’s been awful punky this term.” “I’d like to have seen old Pierson’s face,” he chuckled. “I reckon Bob drew a goose egg for that.” “Too much football, I opine,” growled the Texan. “He can’t get his mind off the game long enough to feed his face, let alone keep track of lectures. He’s plumb locoed about it. You hear me gently warble!” “Oh, say,” Elwell spoke up suddenly; “how about that new stunt of old Bill’s. That forward——” The Texan straightened up like a flash, and, grabbing a book from the table, shied it with swiftness and remarkable accuracy at the Hoosier’s head. Elwell ducked, and the book struck the piano, falling to the keyboard with a discordant crash.
