“I don’t dare brag,” Dave answered.  “The truth, if anything, is that Danny boy and I can hardly hope to hold the Army pair back.  You see, Hep, I know Prescott and Holmes pretty well, from the fact that we played together on the same High School eleven for two years.  Prescott, in fact, was the boy who trained us all.”

“Well, don’t let the Navy fellows get the idea that you’re afraid of that Army pair,” begged Hepson.  “It might get our men discouraged.  Darry, we simply must wipe up the field with the Army!  There isn’t—­there can’t be any such word as ‘defeat’ for us.”

As the time drew near for the greatest of all annual games the instructors at the Naval Academy began to record lower marks for nearly all of the men in the daily recitations.  The midshipmen simply couldn’t keep their minds from wandering to the gridiron.  It meant so much—­to beat the Army!

Then quickly enough the feverish day came.  Early in the forenoon the entire brigade of midshipmen, in uniform, was marched into town behind the Naval Academy band.  Scores of Navy officers, with their ladies, went along.  A lot of the townspeople followed in the big rush to Odenton and Baltimore.  From there two sections of a special train conveyed the Annapolis host to Philadelphia.

Franklin Field was reached, and one of the most brilliant athletic and social events of the year was on.

We shall not attempt to follow the course of the game here.  The Navy eleven hurled itself into the fray with undying heroism, but the Army won the great game.  It is all told in the third volume of “The West point series,” entitled “Dick PRESSCOTT’S third year at West point.”  In that volume, too, is described the meeting of the old-time High School chums, their first meeting since the old-time days back in the tome town of Gridley.

The game was over at last.  The Navy was crestfallen, though not a sign of sorrow or humiliation showed in the jaunty step of the men of the brigade as they marched back to the railway station and took the train for the first stage of the journey home—­the run between Philadelphia and Baltimore.

On the train Hepson hunted up Dave and Dan.

“You did your best, fellows, I know, that,” murmured the defeated football captain.  “And you gave me, in advance, a fair estimate of that Army pair, Prescott and Holmes.  Say, but they’re a pair of terrors!  If we had that pair on the Navy eleven, along with you two, no team that the Army ever yet sent out could beat us.  But we made a strong fight, at any rate.  All of our friends say that.”

“I’m glad I didn’t do any bragging in advance,” Darrin smiled wistfully.  “We were fairly eaten up, Hep.”

“Oh, well, we’ll hope for better luck next year, with the Navy under some other captain.  Maybe you’ll be captain next year, Darry.”

“I don’t want to be,” Dave answered, with a shake of his head.  “If you couldn’t carry our team to victory I don’t dare try.”