So much awe, in fact, did Cobber Second inspire among the high school teams that Gridley was the only outfit to be found that dared take up the proposition of a Thanksgiving Day game with the college men.

“Gridley can’t win!” the pessimists predicted.

Even the heartiest well-wishers of Gridley H.S. felt, mournfully, that too big a contract had been undertaken.

Dick & Co., however, under the inspiring influence of their leader, were all to the hopeful.

“We’ll win,” Dick proclaimed, “because Gridley needs the game.  When Gridley folks go after anything they won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.  That’s the spirit of the town, and the High School is worthy of all the traditions of the town.”

“Talk’s cheap, and brag’s a good dog!” sneered Ripley.

Three sophomores who overheard the remark promptly “bagged” Fred and threw him over the school yard fence.

“Come back with any more of that,” warned one of the hazers, “and we’ll scour your intellect at the town pump.”

Being a freshman, Prescott didn’t say too much.  Neither did his chums.  Yet what they did say was bright and hopeful.  Their spirit began to soak through the student body.

“You see, gentlemen,” Coach Morton warned the football squad one morning at recess, “you’ve got to win.  The school believes you can do it, and the town is beginning to believe it.  If you lose to Cobber Second you’ll forfeit the respect of all the thousands of Gridley folks who are now saying nice things about you.”

“Write it down,” begged Thompson.  “We’re going to beat Cobber Second off the gridiron.”

“Good!” cheered Mr. Morton.  “That’s the talk.  And be sure you live up to it!”

“We’ve got to live up to it,” asserted Thomp, solemnly.

“Right-o!” came the enthusiastic approval from as many members of the student body as could crowd within easy hearing.  The girls were all there, too, for in these days the girls were as much excited as others over the prospects of winning.

“Shall I tell coach and students, Cap?” called Thomp to Edgeworth.

“It won’t do any harm,” nodded Sam.  “Confession will make our deed more binding.”

“What deed?” demanded Coach Morton, scenting some mystery that he was not yet in on.

“Why, you see, sir,” proclaimed Thomp, “every member of the team, and every sub who stands any show to get into the game, has taken the oath of the dub.”

“’The oath of the dub’?” repeated Sub-master Morton.  “That’s a new one on me.

“It’s a new one on us all,” admitted Thompson, gravely.  “We’ve taken the oath, but it’s so dreadful that most of us shivered when it came our turn to recite the patter—–­the ritual, I mean.”

“What is this ’oath of the dub’?” asked the coach.

“It’s fearful,” shivered Thomp.  “Any of you fellows feel better able to explain?”