It wasn’t long before some of the Fordham subs slipped out to find their cronies and sympathizers in the crowd that was slowly dissolving.

Then the word was passed around: 

“Wait and be with us.  Barnes is going to stop the Gridleys on the way to the station.  Barnes is going to make Prescott fight for some things he said on the field!  Of course, if you fellows get generally peevish, and the whole Gridley team gets cleaned out, there won’t be many tears shed.”

So scores of the sort of rabble in whom such an appeal finds ready response hung about, eager to see what would turn up.

CHAPTER XVII

The Long Gray Column

One small urchin there was, so small that he escaped notice as he hung about hearing the word passed.

But that urchin was a Gridley boy who had raised the money to come and see this game.  The boy possessed the Gridley spirit.  As fast as his legs would carry him he raced to dressing quarters, and there told what he had heard.

“Thank you, kid!” said Dick.  “You’re a good Gridley boy,” and then he continued: 

“So that’s the game, is it They’re going to mob us, are they I guess they can do it—–­but, fellows, keep in mind to pass some of the blows back!  When we go down in the dirt be sure that some of the Fordham fellows have something to remember us by for many a day!  I’m glad Hazelton has already been sent forward in an ambulance.”

As Dick finished dressing and waited for the others, he saw one of the subs dropping a spiked shoe into an outer jacket pocket.

“What’s that for?” Dick demanded sternly.  “A weapon?”

“Yes,” sheepishly admitted the other.

“Put it in your bag, then, and let it go on the baggage wagon.  Fellows, we’ll fight with nothing but fists, and only then if we’re attacked.”

“But those scoundrels will probably use brickbats,” argued the fellow who had tried to drop the spiked shoe into his overcoat pocket.

“No matter,” rang Dick’s voice, low but commanding.  “If we have to, we’ll fight for our lives as we fought for the game—–­on the square!  Good citizens don’t carry concealed weapons until called upon by the authorities to do it.”

“Bully for you, Prescott!” rang the voice of the coach.

“You here, Mr. Morton?” cried Dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster.  “Mr. Morton, you’re not a boy, and you don’t want to be mixed up in such affairs.  Why don’t you start-----”

“My place, Captain Prescott, is with the team I’m coaching,” replied the submaster.  “And I think the signs are that we’re going to need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too.”

The baggage wagon came to the door.  Dick, Dave and Tom coolly loaded the baggage on.  The wagon started off at good speed.

Then the two stages drove up to the door.