more wealthy lads hired autos, the nine and its supporters made their way to Mornlngside. Hiram, Luke and a few of their cronies went in a big touring car that Spencer Trusdell, a millionaire's son, owned.
"Some class to them," remarked Joe, as he and Tom with a squad of the scrub and substitutes, got aboard a trolley car.
"They may have to walk back," predicted Tommy Barton, one of the scrub.
"Why?" asked Joe.
"Spencer may not have money enough left to buy gasolene. He's a sport, you know, and always betting."
"Well, he'll bet on his own nine; won't he?"
"Oh, yes—but—" and Tommy paused significantly.
"You don't mean to say you think Morningside will win, do you?" asked Ward Gerard. "You old traitor, you!"
"I shouldn't be surprised to see our side licked," replied Tommy calmly. "They're soft, and Morningside has already played one game with Trinity and trimmed them."
And as Joe and Tom journeyed to the grounds they heard others say the same thing. Neverthe-
