The plain hostility of the home crowd was wearing in on more than one of the Gridley boys.  Dick felt obliged to call his eleven together, and to give them some quiet, homely but forcible advice.  Coach Morton followed, with more in the same line.

Yet it came as a welcome relief to the Gridley youngsters when the referee and the other officials came to the field and game was called.

Dick Prescott won the toss, and took the kickoff.

That, of course, sent the ball into Fordham ranks.  In an instant the solid Fordham line emitted a murmur that sounded like a bear’s growl, then came thundering down upon the smaller Gridley youngsters.

There was a fierce collision, but Gridley held on like a herd of bulls.  The ball was soon down.

For five minutes or so there was savage playing.  Fordham played a “slugging” game of the worst kind.  Several foul tackles were quickly made by home players, yet so quickly released that the referee could not be sure and could not inflict a penalty.  Sly blows were struck when the lines came together.

The average football captain would have claimed penalties, and fought the matter out.

But Dick Prescott let matters run by.  He was waiting his opportunity.

So hard was the “slugging,” so overbearing and ruthlessly unfair was the Fordham charge that, at the end of five minutes, Gridley was forced to make a safety, losing two points at the outset.

“Yah!” sneered an exultant voice from the ranks of the military school.  “That’s the fine Captain Prescott we’ve heard about!”

Tom Reade, in togs, was standing among the Gridley subs at the side line.

Tom recognized, as did all the Gridley boys, the voice of Phin Drayne.

“Yes!” bellowed Tom, facing the gray-clad group.  “And that last speaker was a fellow who was expelled from Gridley High School for selling out his team!”

It was a swift shot and a bull’s-eye.  The Fordham Institute boys had no answer ready for that.  Half of them turned to stare at Phin Drayne, whose guilty face, with color coming and going in flashes seemed to admit the truth of Reade’s taunt.

“Dick,” growled Darrin, as they moved forward, after the safety, to Gridley’s twenty-five yard line, “these Fordham fellows are simply ruffians.  They’re fouling us every second, and they’ll smash half our fellows into the hospital.”

“We’ll see about that!”

Dick Prescott’s voice was as quiet and cool as ever, but there was an ominous flash in his eyes.

CHAPTER XV

“We’ll Play the Gentleman’s Game.”

At the next down Dan Dalzell held up his hand, making a dash for the referee.

“I claim a foul!” he called.

“Captain, this is for you,” announced the referee, turning to Dick.  “Be quick, if you’ve any complaint to make.”