The suggestion was carried out at once.

“I’ll drive along fast, if you want,” proposed the driver, “and get the togs down to the grounds ahead of your team.”

“If you please,” nodded Dick.  “Our boys will want everything ready when they reach the grounds.”

So the two chums were quickly carried beyond the noise and confusion.  A few minutes later the wagon turned in at the Fordham Athletic grounds.

The Fordham High School boys were out in the field, practicing.  As seen in their padded togs they were an extra-bulky looking lot.

“Great Scott!” grunted Darrin, half disgustedly.  “Each one of those Fordham fellows must weigh close to a ton.”

“The more weight the less speed, anyway,” laughed Dick good-humoredly.

“And, look!  I wonder how old some of those fellows are,” continued Darrin.  “I wonder if, in this town, men wait until they’ve made their fortunes and retired, before they enter High School.  Why, some of these Fordham fellows must have voted for president the last two times.”

“Hardly as bad as that, I guess,” smiled Prescott.  “Still, these Fordham boys do look more like a college eleven than a High School crowd.”

Dave continued to gaze over at the home team, and to scowl, until the wagon was halted before dressing quarters.  Here the teamster and another man made short work of carrying in all the tog-bags.

A few minutes later the other fellows arrived.

“Say, which team is it we’re fighting to-day?” demanded Hudson.  “Harvard, or Yale?”

There was general grumbling comment.

“I think,” insisted Tom Reade, “that the Fordham team wouldn’t like to stand a searching hunt into the eligibility of some of their players.”

“They’ve surely brought in some who are not regular, fair-and-square High School students,” contended Dan Dalzell.

There was much more talk of this sort, some of the Gridley boys insisting that Fordham ought to be compelled to account for the size and seeming age of some of the home players.

“We’re up against a crooked line-up, or I’ll give up,” muttered Greg Holmes.

“Now, see here, fellows,” laughed Captain Dick.  “I don’t believe in making any fuss beforehand.  We’ll just go ahead and take what comes to us.”

“It would be too late to make a kick after we’ve played,” cried some one.

“You fellows,” continued Dick, “make me think of what I heard Mr. Pollock say to Wilcox, chairman of the campaign committee back home.”

“What was that?” demanded half a dozen.

“Why,” chuckled Prescott, “Mr. Pollock said to Wilcox:  ’Now, see here, there’s always a chance that the election will go our way.  So never yell fraud until after the election is over.’”

“I guess that’s the wisest philosophy,” laughed Coach Morton, who had taken no part in the previous conversation.

“If that’s the Fordham team,” continued Dick, “it’s one of pretty sizable fellows.  But we’ll do our plain duty, which is to pile out on to the field and proceed to stroll through any line that is posted in our way.”