POMEROY AUTHORITIES INDIGNANTLY DENY ACCUSATIONS OF PART IN ATTEMPT TO SECURE GRINNELL PLAYS AND SIGNALS

The Grinnell Leader-Tribune went so far as to declare, in its news story, that relations between Pomeroy and Grinnell had been strained for the past two years since Grinnell had developed into a school to be feared by the larger college. It seemed that Pomeroy had scheduled Grinnell merely for the purpose of giving her a drubbing and taking it easy between big games and that Grinnell's increased opposition had been embarrassing to Pomeroy students and alumni who rated their eleven far better than the intended victim. Now matters had become so acute, a report was going the rounds that Coach Carl Carver's job at Pomeroy hung upon his winning the Grinnell game, about which there was some doubt owing to Pomeroy's uncertain season. A victory for Grinnell, on the other hand, would be the greatest triumph ever scored by that school since Pomeroy was a nationally known eleven, accustomed to playing the best in the country. "It's a step up or a step down for either coach," the news article concluded, and Mack Carver, Grinnell substitute back, who read the stories with a strange lump in his throat, breathed his thanksgiving that no mention was made of him.

"This is one time when my not being well known as a football player has helped out," he said to himself. "If I'd been prominent on the Grinnell team, I'd have been played up along with my brother. As it is, they'll probably let me alone."

But in this surmise, Mack was wrong. On reporting for football practice that afternoon, he found fellow team members regarding him with traces of suspicion.

"Coach wants to see you in the Field House," Frank informed. "He says not to dress."

Mack stiffened with surprise.

"Okay," he replied, face sobering. "Any idea what it's about?"

"How should I know?" rejoined Grinnell's star back, but Mack fancied he noted an attempt on Frank's part to conceal his real feelings. "Maybe," Frank added, rather lamely, "he's moving you up as a regular!"

"No chance of that," said Mack, grimly. "See you guys later!"

He turned on his heel and strode out of the locker room. On the way to the Field House his thoughts ran together crazily. There could only be one answer to the Coach's request to see him. It must be in connection with the stolen plays!... Mack's mind raced back to the moment in Coach Edward's office when he had been detected examining the plays. He winced. This was probably the meagre clue upon which he was being drawn into the case ... this and the fact that he was a brother of Carl Carver's!

Coach Edward was apparently awaiting Mack's arrival. He was in the company of two strange men when Grinnell's substitute back located him in one of the conference rooms.

"Meet Mr. Pierce and Mr. Greene," the Coach introduced. "Take a chair over here."

Mack sat down, feeling the two men looking him over, shrewdly.

"You've been called," explained Coach Edward at once, "in the hopes that you may help us throw some light on what happened in my office last night."

"I thought so," answered Mack, eyeing his coach squarely.

"Why did you think so?" demanded the man referred to as Pierce. He was solidly built, black moustache and heavy eyebrows. Mack took an instant dislike to his bullying manner.

"The reasons should be obvious," he replied.

"As we understand it," spoke up the man introduced as Greene, "you paid Coach Edward a visit some days ago—at his office."

"I did," acknowledged Mack.

"At that time," continued Mr. Greene, "you took quite an interest in some diagrams of plays which your coach had on his desk."

Mack's face flushed. "I did," he admitted.

"What was the big idea?" boomed Pierce. "You knew your coach would tell you all he wanted you to know about any plays he had. Why take the first chance you got to look them over?"

Mack turned to Coach Edward who sat back, having left the questioning to the two strange gentlemen.

"Listen here, Coach! Who are these men? Am I being cross-examined? You don't think that I...?"

"These men are detectives as you've probably supposed," said Coach Edward. "I haven't accused you of anything. The case has been turned over to them. They have been acquainted with all known facts ... and you simply are being asked to contribute what you know."

Mack stirred uneasily. "I don't know anything!" he replied, frowning his defiance.

"Didn't you even know that a key to Coach Edward's office was found to be missing from his desk shortly after you left?" pressed Detective Pierce.

"No," said Mack, his temper slowly rising.

"But you're willing to admit that a knowledge of Grinnell plays and signals would be highly valuable to your brother, aren't you?"

Mack glared. "I suppose they would ... but if you think my brother would take any underhanded advantage...!"

"We're not thinking," interrupted Detective Greene, smoothly. "We're just talking out loud. I believe you've been peeved at your Coach for some time ... even accused him of not giving you the breaks you deserved!"

"That's right," said Mack, after a moment's hesitation. "And I want to apologize for that."

"You do, eh?... What for?"

"Because I discovered last night I was wrong."

"Last night?"

"I mean—yesterday afternoon ... in scrimmage. I thought I was better than I really was. I'm sorry I ever said anything, Coach."

Coach Edward nodded, exchanging glances with the two detectives.

"Trying to make things right now, aren't you?" taunted Detective Greene. "But you can't explain away that crack you took at Coach Edward just as you were leaving."

"What crack was that?"

"'Here's hoping you get trimmed by Pomeroy!'" Mack flinched. He had been sincerely trying to straighten matters up but the detectives did not appear to be giving him credit.

"I was sore when I left," said Grinnell's substitute back. "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't really mean it."

"You didn't mean it, eh?... Isn't it a fact, when you left Coach Edward's office you were practically positive you wouldn't get a chance to play against Pomeroy?"

He hesitated. "Yes, sir," he finally granted.

"And," persisted Detective Pierce, "isn't it a fact, if you couldn't get a chance to play, you would rather have seen your brother's team win?"

"No!" cried Mack, rising from his chair.

"Just a minute, son!" snapped Detective Pierce, pushing Mack down. "Wasn't that remark you made, leaving Coach Edward's office, actually a threat?"

Mack stared at the burly figure in front of him in amazement. This interview was taking on the proportions of a third degree.

"A threat?" Mack repeated, somewhat bewildered.

"A threat that, if the coach didn't put you in the game against Pomeroy—you'd do all you could to help Pomeroy win!"

"That's a lie!" branded Mack. "I didn't have any such idea in mind. You can't prove a thing. I never saw the key. I haven't been near Coach Edward's office since. I haven't been in touch with my brother. You can't make me out a thief. I went straight to the Coach with my grievance and got it out of my system. I've apologized—whether he wants to accept it or not. I'd intended going to him and apologizing today ... until this came up. It's unfortunate ... but I didn't have anything to do with it!"

Mack's outburst sounded incoherent as it poured from his lips but he was greatly up-wrought. To think of such suspicions having centered upon him! He could understand how he had been responsible for part of his dilemma but the rest seemed far-fetched, absurd.

"I think, officer, the boy's been questioned enough," said Coach Edward.

"Not quite!" rejoined Detective Pierce. "This young man also mentioned in your presence the rumor that you were out after his brother's job. Isn't that so, Mr. Carver?"

"Yes," glowered Mack, now strictly on the defensive.

"He had that very much on his mind. It's human then to believe that he would be interested in his brother's holding his job. Am I right?... Isn't that the way you feel about it, Mr. Carver?"

"Naturally," conceded Mack, with a feeling of being cornered. "But I wouldn't let even that stand in the way of playing my hardest for Grinnell if I got the chance in the Pomeroy game!"

"On the other hand, if you should sympathize too much with your brother, you might fumble at the right time or make a poor play which would help Pomeroy out?"

"No, no!" Mack fairly shouted. "I'm not that sort. I won't answer another question!"

"You're quite right, Mack," sided Coach Edward, evidently disturbed by the turn the cross-examination had taken. "Gentlemen, I don't think anything is to be gained by detaining Mr. Carver longer."

Detectives Pierce and Greene looked consultingly at one another.

"I'm not satisfied that the boy's telling all he knows," declared Pierce. "Since I'm in charge of this case, I must ask that he be suspended from the team until this matter is solved."

"Please," begged Coach Edward, as Mack looked his concern. "Not that. It will mean unfavorable publicity—ill feeling between the two schools."

"We can't help that," said Detective Pierce, bluntly. "You've reported that your office has been entered. We've been assigned to the case. You've told us everything you knew about events leading up to last night and it's our job to run the clues down. Greene and I feel that this young man should be held as a material witness. Naturally it won't look right for you to keep a man on the team who's under suspicion."

"I quite agree with you there."

"Then suspend him at once."

"I dislike doing this very much."

"You haven't any choice, Mr. Edward."

"But I don't feel you've lined up sufficient evidence to warrant such action. I'll confess thinking first of Mack when I discovered what had been done ... but it was only because of certain incidents. Listening to this cross-examination today, I'm not convinced that he is any way connected. Rather, I believe that the circumstances surrounding him have been unfortunate. I'd much prefer to drop the whole matter than..."

"You can't drop it!" bellowed Detective Pierce. "It's in the papers. We're not going to have it said that we were hushed up. Whoever broke into your office must have been working for Pomeroy because the plays and signals wouldn't have done anyone else any good. When this young man decides to talk we'll find out something. You wait and see."

Mack Carver laughed, grimly. The situation, serious as it was, now struck him funny. Two small town detectives with an inflated sense of their own importance. Coach Edward, because of his desire to win the Pomeroy game had magnified the happening until it had developed beyond his control. There was going to be some fireworks now despite anything that he could do.

"It's all right, Coach," said Mack, sympathetically. "Go ahead and suspend me. You probably wouldn't have played me anyway—so it's no loss to the team. Besides—these men can't prove anything on me if they spend the rest of their lives."

"Mack," addressed Coach Edward, with obvious sincerity. "I hope you'll believe me when I say that I'm deeply sorry this thing has occurred. You've made your mistakes in judgment ... and I've made mine. I've a feeling now that you're being done an injustice but there's little I can do about it for the time being...!"

"What are you trying to hand the boy?" cut off Detective Pierce. "Is he suspended or isn't he?"

"He's suspended," said the Coach, simply.

"Very well!" snapped Detective Pierce. "Come on, Greene. I've got another angle for us to follow up. As for you, son—you stay put where we can call you!"

"I will," Mack promised, and stepped into the hall.

Outside the cool November air felt bracing to his feverish temples. He inhaled it to the depth of his lungs as he strode from the Field House, across the gridiron where Darby, assistant coach, was putting the squad through its paces.

"Hi, Mack!" yelled Frank as the substitute back was discovered. "Where you going?... Wait a minute!"

The team members looked Mack's way, apparently much interested.

"They're probably curious to know what's happened," thought Mack, a peculiar sort of numbness taking possession of him ... a numbness which was making him insensible to bitterness and disappointment. But Mack had no desire to mix with his fellows and hurried his footsteps toward the exit gate.

"Hold on, Carver!" Assistant Coach Darby shouted after him.

Mack came to a stop and looked back, wonderingly. Darby hurried, over, followed by Varsity team members.

"What's the matter?" asked Mack, almost defiantly. "What do you want?"

"Better get into your duds," said Darby. "We may need you."

"Not me," Mack rejoined, incredulously.

"Yes, you!" replied Frank, coming up and tapping him on the shoulder. "Dave's just been carried off the field with a dislocated knee. It's doubtful if he'll be able to play Saturday."

Mack stood for a moment, shocked at the news. The field seemed to spin around in a circle ... then the peculiar numbness returned.

"Too late," he heard himself saying. "You'll have to use someone else. I'm no longer on the team. I've been suspended."

And, with that, he continued on out through the exit gate, not so much as glancing back over his shoulder.

Grinnell College never knew a sensation to compare with that which arose over the suspension of one Mack Carver. Not widely acquainted because of his having entered Grinnell as a Junior with his residence on the campus not quite three months in duration, Mack now became the most discussed young man in school. His brother, Coach Carl Carver of Pomeroy, had been too well known for the past few years, due to the steam roller effect of his team upon the woeful best that Grinnell could put on the field. Newspapers, in their merciless survey of the present situation, left nothing to be imagined, emphasizing that the coming Saturday's contest was more a "battle of coaches" than it was a "battle of elevens." Injury of Dave Morgan, Grinnell's great blocking back, had complicated matters still more since Mack Carver, the suspended back, would logically have taken his place on the team. News had leaked out of Mack's satisfactory performance in the last secret scrimmage and rumor had it that Mack and his brother were not supposed to be on speaking terms. This rumor hardly jibed with the suspicion Mack was declared to be under—of having stolen Grinnell signals and plays for the purpose of tipping said brother off that Pomeroy might be assured of winning the game. But, since one good rumor deserved another, all those interested might read and take their choice. Meanwhile all sorts of wild reports were circulated, sides were frenziedly taken, and the Grinnell stadium was sold out with thousands of demands for tickets being of necessity refused.

"There'll be plenty of excitement here Saturday," a Grinnell storekeeper remarked. "I'm going to re-enforce my store windows so the crowds can't push 'em in."

Friday afternoon, Pomeroy's football squad, thirty-three strong, arrived at Grinnell, having made the hundred and forty mile trip by bus. They immediately took rooms in the Grinnell Inn—a whole floor to be exact—and then the squad stretched their legs with a walk up and down the Main Street while Coach Carl Carver got on the telephone and called his brother.

"Mack—this is Carl! What's all this I hear about stolen plays and your suspension?"

"It's all a lot of noise!"

"Yeah? Doesn't sound like it by the papers. Looks pretty serious to me. I've invited Coach Edward up here to see me in fifteen minutes and I want you to be here."

"Aw, nix, Carl!... I've said my say. I'm not begging for anything. I've embarrassed you enough as it is! You know what they're saying ... that we're in cahoots!"

"What do I care what they're saying?... I want you to be here, understand?... I'm not taking 'no' for an answer!"

"Okay," said Mack, reluctantly, "but I'm telling you beforehand, it won't do you any good."

Mack arrived five minutes before Coach Edward appeared.

"Well!" greeted Carl, "this is a nice kettle of fish!"

"Mostly my fault, too," said Mack, and related the events leading up to the present moment.

"So Coach Edward is after my job?" mused Carl. "That's what happens after you've had a winning team for a couple years. A few reverses and the proud alumni commence hollering 'get the axe'! Everybody loves a winner and they don't stop to figure there's got to be a loser to every winner. Now that Grinnell's piled up a great record this year, we're supposed to bump you off. If we do, despite the fact we've had no season to shout about ourselves, the alumni will consider our year crowned with success."

"You think you're going to beat us?" grinned Mack.

"Yes—with you suspended!" kidded Carl.

"Cut it!" Mack winced. "I'll prove to you yet that I can play football!"

"Go to it!" invited Carl. "I admire your stick-to-it-iveness! Three years and just a substitute indicates a bear for punishment."

"Being related to you is my biggest handicap," was Mack's rejoinder. "It cost me better consideration before and it's costing me my chances now."

"Tough luck!" sympathized Carl. "But if your coach gets my job next year, you'll have a clear field!"

"I hope he doesn't!"

"Meaning you hope we win?"

Mack's face colored. "No—but I hope you keep your job win or lose."

"Listen, kid!" and Carl looked cautiously toward the door, "we've been slowed up due to injuries and illness this year in addition to poor material. But right now my eleven's at its peak for the first time and we're set to give Grinnell a whale of a battle tomorrow. So—if your team wins, your coach will be deserving of something!"

A rap sounded on the door.

"There he is now!"

Carl strode over and flung the door open.

"Edward, how are you?"

"Fine, Carver. And you?"

"Okay!... I've asked my kid brother to sit in."

"Oh! ... Hello, Mack!"

"Hello, Coach."

"Sit down, Edward."

"Thanks."

"I haven't said anything to Mack about this but maybe I can throw a little light on this stolen play business."

"Yes?"

"On Wednesday night, this week, I received a mysterious note, signed by a Mister "X" who proposed to sell me your signals and plays. I was advised to leave one hundred dollars under a log in a vacant field..."

Coach Edward leaned forward, highly interested. Mack whistled, impulsively.

"What did you do?"

"I left the hundred," related Coach Carver, "but I marked the bills. The next morning I found the bills gone and, in their place, this sealed envelope which, I imagine, contains the stolen plays and signals."

"You haven't opened it?"

You'll have to take my word for it. The seal is unbroken. Of course—this could be a second envelope."

"Hardly likely," said Coach Edward, greatly fussed. "May I open it?"

"I should expect you to," said Carl. "Maybe we've both been fooled. It may be nothing but a wad of paper."

"No—it's the plays all right ... and—the signals!" gasped Coach Edward. "This is almost incredible ... and certainly brazen! I don't suppose the guilty person has been traced?"

"No—although the police in Pomeroy as well as the merchants have been quietly tipped off as to the marked bills—a tiny "X" in the right hand upper corner. You see, the idea is to out-X Mister X." Carl was smiling.

"But he's probably left the town," surmised Coach Edward.

"Yes—and he's more probably returned to Grinnell," predicted Carl. "You may find some of the marked five dollar bills in your town."

"Then you figure the thief a resident of Grinnell?"

"Well, I most certainly don't wish to claim him for Pomeroy! We've already been given the name of being behind this ... and my own brother is under the shadow of suspicion."

"This I regret very much," declared Coach Edward. "I said so at the time. Mack and I have had our differences; I jumped a bit too hastily at conclusions myself and the result is this unfortunate notoriety. I'm profoundly sorry. I would like to be able to make amends."

"Then may I suggest that you begin by reinstating my brother at once. You have the evidence now to prove he was not implicated and I demand that you do it!"

"You won't have to demand," promised Coach Edward, "I was opposed to this action in the first place and it will please me to present these facts to the dumb detectives on the case who would have half the college indicted for the theft if I'd listen to them!"

"Whether you use my brother in the game or not is no affair of mine," continued Coach Carver. "But it is my affair when his name and mine is attacked. As for tomorrow—good luck but not too much of it!"

"I might say the same to you!" said Coach Edward, extending his hand.

The two coaches shook hands. Carl's hand was cool and firm; but his rival's palm was hot and trembly.

Morning papers, the day of the game, carried the news of Mack Carver's reinstatement and a letter of public apology from Coach Edward. No explanation was offered, as to the reasons behind Mack's return to the Varsity.

"I'll bet this action was taken simply to reduce the feeling between the two colleges," ventured a Grinnell supporter. "There have been enough ugly reports surrounding this game and the authorities probably got together, figuring they'd quiet a lot of wild rumors and unfounded stories. But you can't tell me—where there was so much smoke—that there isn't plenty of fire!"

And this opinion seemed to be shared by most of the thousands who jammed the stadium for the game. It was a clear, cold day with a dry, hard field destined to provide a fair test of the strength of both elevens.

In the locker room, as Grinnell players dressed for the game, Mack Carver was approached by team members who expressed their confidence in him. Mack, while he tried not to show it, was highly nervous and ill at ease. There was now every reason to believe that he would see service in the game since Dave's knee had not responded to treatment and since Coach Edward would probably feel that his playing at least part of the contest would prove to Pomeroy that no grudge or suspicion remained.

"If I'm put in I've got to play a bang-up game," Mack told himself, "or I'll be open to criticism again. I can't afford to make any slips."

Dave Morgan, hobbling in on crutches, had encouraging words to say.

"You're in a tough spot, I know," he sympathized. "But just forget you're related to Coach Carver and go out there to play a game of football. If you tear in there the way you did when you got started against me—you won't have to worry."

"Thanks," said Mack, gratefully. "You're a peach!"

"Don't kid yourself," grinned Dave. "I didn't throw this knee out to give you your chance!"

Mack's eyes clouded. "No, Dave—you've done more than that. You've shown me what real spirit was. I've been so wound up in myself that I couldn't feel it before. I feel it now, though ... and I only hope I can play good enough so your loss won't be felt too badly."

Dave patted him on the back. "I'll be pulling for you, boy!"

A buzz of excitement went through the crowded stands as the Pomeroy and Grinnell elevens lined up for kick-off and the player numbered "26" in Grinnell's backfield was pointed out to be Mack Carver. Pomeroy was kicking to Grinnell.

"The highly exploited brother act is about to be put on!" cried a fan. "We'll soon see what a brother player can do against a brother coach. If there's not plenty of fireworks in this game, I'll miss a good guess!"

Mack, as he awaited the referee's whistle starting the game, felt his heart throbbing in his throat. This was his big moment—a terrible moment. For him—the world rested on his shoulders. Thanks to unwelcome newspaper publicity his every move would be watched. He would be playing as though followed by a spotlight. Keenly conscious of the business rivalry between his brother and Coach Edward, Mack thoroughly appreciated the gesture of his being placed in the opening line-up. He even wondered what his own feelings would have been had he been in Coach Edward's shoes. Could he have trusted the brother of a rival coach in the big game—knowing how deeply rooted is family loyalty? Not that he would have suspected said brother of deliberate leanings toward the other side ... but he might have feared an unconscious favoring and a partial let-down on the part of the brother at critical times. Were a game the only thing at stake, such brotherly consideration might be entirely discounted. But when the loss of such a game might affect the family pocketbook, the situation took on different proportions. And this was the tough spot in which the Grinnell Coach and player found themselves. Coach Carl Carver had never intimated any personal concern nor confessed to any embarrassment at the possibility of Mack's playing. His attitude had been impersonal ... but he, of the three, was least in position to feel the strain.

The kick-off!

Mack's eyes followed the ball as it arched in the air and spun his way. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw team-mates forming a phalanx in front. Then he heard Frank Meade's voice off to his left.

"Take it, Mack—and follow me!"

The stands were rocketing sound as Mack, his throat suddenly dry as paper, realized the pigskin was coming to him on his own seven yard line ... that the Pomeroy eleven was rushing down ... trying to penetrate Grinnell's quickly forming interference. He made the catch, clutching the ball to him fearsomely, terrorized at the thought of dropping it, and felt himself in motion as he slid in behind Frank who crossed in front of him. Ten—fifteen—twenty yards he traveled ... conscious that frenzied Pomeroy forms were being dumped heavily to earth by fellow team-mates ... and that Frank, directly ahead, was doing herculean work at clearing the way for him. On the thirty yard stripe, Frank suddenly went down, blocking off another tackler as he fell ... and Mack was forced to veer toward the sidelines as he was left upon his own. He saw now that Dizzy Fox, Pomeroy's star backfield man, was bearing rapidly down on him. There was no escape ... he must try to straight-arm ... or else be forced out of bounds....

Smack!

Dizzy's body-jarring tackle could be heard over the entire field. Mack felt his breath violently punched from him and the mad clamor of the field fade out in almost total darkness. A referee's whistle screeched. Mick came to himself with the trainer bending over him, lifting him up and down at the waist. He was gasping for breath.

"Pomeroy's ball!" he heard the referee saying.

"Pomeroy's ball?" Mack repeated, dazedly.

"Yeah—you fumbled when you was hit!" said the trainer. "Tough break, old boy!"

Pomeroy's ball on Grinnell's forty yard line and Mack Carver's brilliant runback of the initial kick-off reduced to naught!

"What will Coach Edward think?" an agonized Mack wondered as he stumbled to his feet and was shoved back into position.

"Never mind that, Mack!" Frank was saying in his ear. "That might have happened to any of us!"

But this was small consolation and it was even less consolation when Pomeroy, overjoyed at the early turn of fortune, put on an inspired drive which carried them the remaining distance to the Grinnell goal in three first downs. The point after touchdown was kicked and Pomeroy, five minutes after the game's opening, was out in front with a seven to nothing lead.

"That's what you call brotherly cooperation!" remarked a disgruntled rooter, but he was instantly howled down by those inclined to be charitable.

"Mack was over-anxious!" explained one. "He made a great get-away but he was trying too hard. He was too tense when he was hit and the ball was snapped out of his arms. If he'd have relaxed, he'd have held onto it. Shouldn't I know? I played for three years!"

Again Pomeroy kicked off. This time the ball went to Frank Meade who was downed on the twenty-five yard mark. Then followed a terrific struggle between two powerful lines—both elevens settling down to work with the first hysteria of battle over. The contest became a punting duel between the twenty yard lines with the offense of the two teams effectively checked.

"Looks like that lone touchdown might prove to be the measure of difference between Pomeroy and Grinnell!" observed a spectator as the half ended. "If it is, it's going to be hard on Mack Carver! He hasn't shown much so far ... but no one has—except Dizzy Fox who made the only score. That fellow sums up as the best back on the field!"

In the locker room a dejected Mack Carver rightfully expected a reprimand from his coach. Instead, Coach Edward announced to his squad: "Boys, you'll be glad to know that the man who stole our signals and plays has been caught. He's a small time gambler who'd placed bets on Pomeroy to win. We owe his capture to Mack's brother, Coach Carl Carver. And I want to again apologize to Mack for the embarrassment I've caused him and his brother."

"That's all right, Coach," replied Grinnell's substitute back who had played in the starting line-up for the first time. "I'm darn sorry about that fumble."

"Go out after 'em this half!" was Coach Edward's retort. "You can get that touchdown back!"

Mack could have no quarrel now about not being given the proper chance to show what he could do. Coach was keeping him in, was giving him the benefit of every doubt, was finding no fault even when his fumble might be costing Coach Edward an opportunity to take over the coaching reins at Pomeroy ... and at the same time help Coach Carver to hold his position.

"This touchdown mustn't be what decides the game!" Mack told himself, fervently. "If Pomeroy wins, I mustn't be held accountable for it!"

The third quarter began as though to continue the close defensive struggle but, along toward the end of the quarter, Grinnell suddenly came to life as left half Frank Meade, behind the frenzied interference of Mack Carver, broke away for a thirty-nine yard run which placed the ball on Pomeroy's twenty-one yard mark.

"Great work, Mack!" shouted a delighted Dave Morgan from the Grinnell bench. Then, turning to the Grinnell subs, Dave grinningly declared: "Say—he looked just like me out there on that one! Did you see him block those tacklers out of the way?... Now he's got going ... look out, Pomeroy—here we come!"

Pomeroy's defense tightened. An end run failed to gain. A lateral pass was good for four yards. Third down and seven to go.

Quarterback Bert Henley, calling signals in the huddle, nominated one of Coach Edward's new plays—the lateral pass opening into a forward. On this play, Mack was to take the pass from Bert and lateral to Frank who was to fade back while Mack screened the pass from in front, blocking off would-be tacklers.

The ball was snapped. Mack took the toss from Bert and started running, then tossed the pigskin on to Frank who was running on his left.

The toss was poor and Frank fumbled, then recovered. Mack continued left, covering Frank as he dropped back ... but the Pomeroy line was through fast and Mack found himself confronted with three frenzied linesmen who sought to break up the pass. He threw himself in front of them all and actually succeeded in bringing two down but the third dodged to the side and leaped up, just as Frank, hurried by the poor toss, released the pass.

"It's intercepted!" screamed Pomeroy stands as the Pomeroy right end deflected the ball and gathered it into his arms, starting off for the Grinnell goal, some eighty yards distance. He angled his run to avoid a desperate Frank Meade who immediately gave chase. Mack, disentangling himself from the two Pomeroy linesmen, also attempted to follow after but was bumped joltingly to the ground again by another Pomeroy player who came up from nowhere to offer interference in his team-mate's wake.

"Touchdown!" yelled a delirious Pomeroy as the right end crossed Grinnell's goal just as Frank hit him in a diving tackle. "There goes your old ball game!"

Amid a riotous ovation by Pomeroy rooters, the point after touchdown was added as the third quarter ended with the scoreboard reading: Pomeroy, 14; Grinnell, 0.

"I'm responsible for that score, too!" moaned Mack, inconsolably. "That rotten pass I made to you, Frank. By the time you recovered and got set they were on you!..."

Frank, bitterly disappointed, had nothing to say. But Quarterback Bert Henley, greatly perturbed by the breaks of the game, turned savagely upon Grinnell's substitute back.

"You're right, Mack. You've played a swell game today for Pomeroy! If you'd stolen the signals and handed 'em to your brother's team, you couldn't have done any better! Coach Edward's treated you pretty white ... but you're about as low as a guy could get!"

"Shut up, Bert!" demanded Frank, grabbing the outraged quarterback by the arm as Mack accepted the blazing denunciation with clenched fists, controlling himself with difficulty.

"He ought to be taken out!" cried fullback Steve Hilliard, equally upset.

Grinnell team members looked to the sidelines, half-expectant that Coach Edward would take action but he sat immobile as Pomeroy prepared to kick-off once more. Whether by design or not, the pigskin was driven directly at Grinnell's offending player.

"I'll take it!" cried Frank, racing over from the side.

"No!" shouted Mack, "It's mine!"

Something in Mack's brain went hot at the realization that his team-mates were trusting him no longer. Here was Frank, trying to take a ball away from him which was rightfully his to accept. Frank made the catch, snatching the ball practically out of Mack's arms.

"Get in front of me!" he yelled.

Mack had no other choice. Pomeroy players were sifting through Grinnell's interference as Mack shot up the field, with the fleet-footed Frank constantly urging him on to greater speed, until both got behind a wedge of their own team members who were doing an excellent job of crashing Pomeroy tacklers. At mid-field the wedge was broken up and Mack and Frank emerged from the heap on their own.

"To the right!" directed Frank, seeing that two tacklers were bearing down from the left. Mack changed directions obediently.

Grinnell supporters, wild with hope, screamed the two runners on.

"Look out from behind!" they shrieked, as a Pomeroy player, giving mad chase, was rapidly closing up the gap.

Frank looked back over his shoulder, then called to the fellow who had put his own team in the hole.

"Mack—drop back and take that guy out!"

"Okay!" answered Mack, dropping at once to the rear as Frank raced past him.

The Pomeroy tackler loomed up almost at once and Mack, whose charge down the field as Frank's interferer had been fraught with one spectacular piece of frenzied blocking after another, now completed his task by hurling himself in front of the last threat to Frank's sensational touch down dash from kick-off. Tackler and interferer went down in a thudding pile as Grinnell's star halfback crossed Pomeroy's goal line and triumphantly touched the ball down. Then the field rocked with sound.

"What a run!" gasped Dave Morgan, waving his crutch. "And what a piece of interfering! Mack sure produced that time! Didn't look like he was handing the game to Pomeroy then, did it?... Come on, gang—this old game isn't lost yet!"

But a great groan went the rounds as the pass from center was bad and Frank missed the kick for extra point. Score: Pomeroy, 14, Grinnell, 6!

"If we make another touchdown and kick the goal, we'll still be a point behind!" grieved a Grinnell supporter. "There goes our outside chances of at least tying the score!"

"Now you're playing football!" were Frank's words to Mack as he shook his fist at him and then turned on other scowling team members with the demand that they show a little fight.

"This is not enough!" Mack kept repeating. "I've got to do more!... This is not enough!"

Grinnell kicked off and it was a frenzied Mack Carver who raced down the field to bowl over interferers and down the Pomeroy man with the ball on his eighteen yard line.

"Yea, Carver!... Yea, yea, yea!"

"Hold 'em!" ordered Quarterback Bert Henley. "Make 'em kick!"

The Grinnell linesmen, battered from the pounding they had received, dug their cleats into the turf and held for three downs with Pomeroy being able to gain but two yards. Dizzy Fox then dropped back to his five yard line to punt.

"Block that kick!" was the cry.

And, with the snapping of the ball, Grinnell opened up a hole. It existed but for a moment as the lines strained against one another ... but, in that moment, Grinnell's right guard was through. He hurried the kick, all but blocking it so that the ball went out of bounds on Pomeroy's thirty yard mark.

"All right, gang!" shouted Quarterback Bert Henley. "What are we going to do about this?"

"We're going through!" answered the team to a man.

Coach Edward sent in three fresh linesmen with the aim of aiding the offensive drive. The scoreboard read: eight minutes to play.

To Mack's astonishment, he was given the ball on the first play, a drive through tackle. He plunged for four yards and, heard the Grinnell stands yell his name. Frank was good for two yards ... Steve was good for four more and a first down on Pomeroy's twenty yard mark!

"That's hitting 'em!" commended Bert. "Keep it up, you guys! How about you, Mack? Do you want to see us win or don't you?"

Mack glared. "Just gimme that ball!"

Fighting and squirming his way through, Mack made another four yards.

"Four yards, Carver!" the stands commenced shouting.

But Pomeroy rose up to turn fullback Steve Hilliard back at the line of scrimmage.

Third down and six to go. Frank Meade—on a triple pass behind the line—with Mack as interference, breaking out around left end! The play was beautifully executed but Mack, as he turned the end, stumbled so that Frank bumped him and was thrown off his stride. Before he could recover, Pomeroy tacklers were in on him so that he gained but a yard.

"There you go!" razzed Bert, shaking a blackened fist in Mack's face, "Spilling the bucket again!"

"Shut up, Bert!" snapped Frank. "Signals!"

"Signals!" Bert repeated.

Mack stiffened. Bert was calling the trick play once more on which he had made the poor toss to Frank. This time the play must be good. Here they were on Pomeroy's fifteen yard line and fourth down with five yards to go.

"If I bungle this one...!" Mack thought, and bit his lips.

Berths toss to him was wide but Mack reached out one hand and pulled the ball to him as he ran. He shot the ball on a quick lateral toss to Frank and fairly sobbed his relief when he saw that the toss couldn't have been better. Frank faded, holding the pigskin ready to pass, as Mack now turned his attention to helping block Pomeroy men who were trying to get through at him. In this he was successful, going down under two Pomeroy linesmen as Frank shot a pass low and to the right—over the end zone. There—racing into the end zone, was right end Eddie Miller. He touched the ball with his finger tips, juggled and caught it, being almost immediately buried beneath an avalanche of tacklers.

"Yea!" roared the Grinnell stands. "A touchdown!"

Pomeroy, a greatly sobered team, lined up in front of its own goal posts. The team charged viciously and Frank, with Bert upending the ball, again missed the place-kick for extra point.

Score: Pomeroy, 14; Grinnell, 12.

"Well, we might as well lose by two points as one," philosophized a Grinnell supporter. "Nice comeback we staged ... but too late to do us much good. Only four minutes left to play."

Grim-faced Grinnell warriors eyed each other. Could they possibly regain possession of the ball and drive down the field for a third touchdown and snatch a victory from almost certain defeat? The odds were overwhelmingly against them. It had been a most spectacular and pulsating game from the standpoint of spectator and player alike. Both teams were now near exhaustion from their offensive and defensive efforts.

"Brother Carl will certainly know his team's been in a ball game," thought Mack, feeling somewhat relieved that he had at last performed creditably after several wretched blunders. Inwardly, however, there lurked a condemning conscience which impressed upon him that no performance save one which might lead to a Grinnell victory could ever suffice. This feeling took precedence over a flash of satisfaction that his brother was apparently to retain his coaching position, if it actually had hung upon the outcome of this game. "But I mustn't think of this at all!" Mack told himself at once. "My attitude has got to be like Dave suggested. I've simply got to forget any family tics. I'm playing to beat Pomeroy ... not my brother!"

Grinnell kicked off to Pomeroy and the visitors indicated at once that they intended to retain possession of the ball until the end of the game if they possibly could. Several first downs in succession ate up valuable seconds and took the ball to Grinnell's forty-five yard line.

"Hold 'em!" begged and ranted quarterback Bert Henley. "What's the matter with you guys? Gone to pieces?... Get in there and hold that line!"

More reserves came dashing out from the side lines to help bolster a Grinnell forward wall which had taken plenty of punishment. These fresh men drove into the Pomeroy line on the first play and opened a hole through which Mack Carver darted. He hit an interferer, sent him spinning and broke up a pass behind the line. The ball went wild with Mack following into Pomeroy's backfield after it. Three wide-eyed Pomeroy men were on his heels as he dived for the pigskin and rolled over with it clutched against his stomach. The three Pomeroy men landed on him almost together.

"Grinnell's ball on Pomeroy's forty yard line!" announced the referee, and Grinnell supporters went crazy.

"Great stuff, Mack!" shouted Coach Edward from the sidelines, and Mack, hearing, could only gulp his joy. The game might be lost but if Coach Edward only could believe he'd done his best despite the two glaring misplays ... errors, at least, which he, himself, could never excuse...!

"Your kid brother's playing quite a game out there!" observed a faculty member to Pomeroy's coach who fidgeted nervously.

"Quite a game?" was the response. "A whale of a game!... I never saw a kid play in worse luck the first three quarters ... but now he's making his own breaks ... and am I glad there's only a minute left to play...?!!"

Mack was thumped joyously on the back by fellow players as he staggered back in position, holding his side. He had held onto the ball at all costs and despite a scrambled attempt on the ground to wrest it away from him.

With only time for about two plays, Quarterback Henley called for a pass. Frank Meade faded back and shot a long one. Mack, breaking through with other possible receivers, had not expected to be singled out, but wheeled just in time—after getting free—to hear the crowd yell and see the pigskin coming straight at him. He reached up and picked it out of the air on Pomeroy's twenty-five yard line, being hit before he could move by Dizzy Fox.

"Yea, Carver!" yelled the stands.

Mack, all but bewildered by the way plays had revolved about him, was pushed into the huddle as time-keepers consulted their watches.

"What'll it be?" demanded Bert. "Shall we chance another pass?"

"A field goal would do it?" cried Steve, with a glance at the scoreboard. "But Frank's toe hasn't been so hot today!"

"We've only time for one more play," reminded Bert. "Can you fellows hold that line? Seems to me a kick's a little better than another pass. We're almost dead in front of the goal posts!"

"I'll try it if you say so!" volunteered Frank. "Mack—you've got to block 'em off until I toe that ball! They mustn't get through at me this time!"

"Okay!" said Mack, jaws tightening. Here was the test. A successful kick meant defeat for his brother ... no, defeat for Pomeroy! It meant that all scores against him would be wiped out ... his misplays forgotten...! ... But how about his brother's coaching position?... He mustn't think about that!... His mother—her support!... No, no!... Whatever happened would be all right.... He must do his part ... he must be loyal to Grinnell. He'd picked this school with the hope of someday helping to beat Pomeroy ... and here was his chance!... He must do his part to the uttermost limit ... and then—if the kick failed ... well—nobody could say he hadn't tried...!

"Kick formation!" Bert was calling.

A murmur of surprise swept through the stands and a pall of silence fell. Grinnell—attempting a field goal as a last resort ... attempting to pull a lost cause out of the fire!

"Hold 'em, gang!" begged Bert. "You've got to hold 'em!"

Grinnell's quarterback was kneeling, ready to upend the ball. Steve and Mack were stationed at the side and in front. They exchange determined glances.

"No one gets past us!" said Steve.

Mack, too full for words, nodded, fingers twitching, eyeing the enemy line.

Coach Carl Carver, pulling nervously at the rim of his hat, sized up the distance between the teams and the goal posts.

"It's one chance in a...!" he started.

The ball flashed back and the two lines came together in a desperate upheaval. Grinnell's line wavered and snapped. As it did so, Bert caught the pigskin and placed its nose on the ground, sighting the distant goal posts. Frank started running forward.

"You get those two—I'll stop these babies!" fullback Steve shouted to Mack as he blocked off frenzied Pomeroy linesmen, rushing through in a mad attempt to spoil the kick.

"Right with you!" echoed Mack, obliterating from his mind all thoughts of possible consequences ... intent only upon doing the job assigned him. His body halted the plunge of the Pomeroy left end and guard ... and resulted in a third Pomeroy player piling atop. As he went down he caught a fleeting glimpse of the pigskin passing over his head. A moment of breathless, very terrible suspense, broken only by the sharp crack of the timer's gun, signalling that the game was technically over. Then a tremendous roar! Mack freed himself from the mass of arms and legs just in time to see the ball settling over the bar and to see the scoreboard change its figures to read:

GRINNELL—15 POMEROY—14

Unaccountable things happened after that. More pandemonium than a fellow, playing his first full game for Grinnell had thought existed in the world. Joy-crazed students surrounding him as he suddenly gave vent to his feelings and, to the amazement of fellow team-mates, broke into uncontrolled sobs.

"What the heck are you crying about?" Frank Meade was demanding.

"Because," he choked, "Pomeroy lost!"

A great shout of laughter went up at this from all except those who realized the predicament Grinnell's substitute back had been in.

"Cheer up, kid!" called a familiar voice, and Mack beheld Coach Carver fighting his way through to him in company with Coach Edward.

"But you lost your job?" Mack wanted to know, still somewhat dazed by it all.

"I sure did!" grinned Brother Carl, gripping him by the shoulder. "You knocked me out of that!... I always said you couldn't play football!"

"And now he knows it!" smiled Coach Edward. "I'm taking your brother's place at Pomeroy next year—so he tells me!... In fact, he recommended me!"

"What?" gasped Mack.

"Why not?" rejoined Carl, his eyes twinkling. "I've signed up to coach Great Western next year at ... guess what salary...?" Carl looked about him, cautiously. "I don't want any newspaper guys to hear this—it's ... er ... just something to be kept in the family." Whereupon Carl cupped his hand between his mouth and Mack's ear and whispered a figure.

"No?" cried Mack, overjoyed, and—forthwith leaped atop his brother's back, bearing him to earth for a down which was not recorded in the game!

A CASE OF NERVES

"Look at that guy—he hasn't been eating enough to keep a canary alive for the last three days!"

"You know what's the trouble, don't you?"

"Indigestion?"

"Yeah—nervous indigestion? Speed's on edge over the big game next Saturday against Hamilton!"

"No kidding?"

Kinky Doyle, who sat at the Second Team's training table, stared at his informant unbelievingly.

"Straight dope!" replied Sober Watkins, quarterback of the Scrubs, with a glance toward the Varsity training table nearby and star half-back Speed Bartlett, toying with his meal. "Speed had the same kind of stagefright last season ... lost so much appetite and sleep and got so high strung that he fumbled in the Hamilton game and handed them the victory on a platter!"

"That's funny," said Kinky, after a pause. "He hasn't been this way up to the last few days. He's played through the whole year...!"

"Sure—the big game's the only one that bothers him this way," grinned Sober. "You know, some fellows can stand every kind of flower but goldenrod ... and that knocks them for a flock of sneezes. Well, for some reason, Speed has the feeling that Hamilton's not to be sniffed at. All the other games are just dress rehearsals but this contest is the real thing!"

"That's bad," declared Kinky, seriously. "Bad for Speed and bad for the team. The other fellows can't help but be depressed by the way he's taking it. And after what happened last year it'll be a wonder if Speed don't have the whole eleven on edge."

"You said it," agreed Sober. "But what can we do about it? That's a neat little problem for Coach Brock to solve!"

Could the two squad members have known it, the Coach was even at that moment turning a rather drastic plan over in his mind. Something certainly had to be done. Practically every fellow at the Varsity and Second Team training tables had observed the sudden funereal atmosphere being radiated by one Speed Bartlett. His sad and solemn conduct had begun to descend like a pall upon a heretofore gay and carefree dining hall. Just why this climax to a Medford season should have such a nervous effect upon her star halfback was as difficult to determine as why some folks got short of breath in the proximity of a cat. "Cat asthma", this was called. There weren't any words exactly descriptive of Speed's disorder for he was courageous to a fault. In the heat of battle he played with an abandon and a drive that usually carried him through to his objectives. It wasn't, then, a matter of his actually being "afraid" of anything. But, still, the seeming mere anticipation of the big game with Hamilton produced a nerve-shattering reaction.

"I can't let this go on," Coach Brock decided, "or I won't have any morale left. Hamilton has a strong eleven this year and we'll need all the fighting spirit we've got. Now if I can just figure out some way to suspend Speed from the team—tell him he's out of the big game—relieve him of his nerve tension and then shove him in the contest at the last minute ... that might turn the trick!"

Phil Doran and Milt Gleeson were as rabid Medford supporters as could be found in college. More than this—they were close chums of Speed Bartlett. Between them they owned a little runabout in which they travelled to the various college towns where Medford's eleven might be playing. The coming Hamilton game, however, was to be played at Medford and, since it was to be the last contest of the season, the boys' football trips were over.

"What do you suppose Coach Brock's sent for us about?" Phil asked Milt as the two were on the way to the athletic director's office.

"Haven't the slightest idea," grinned Milt. "But maybe he wants us to help him work out some new plays to spring against Hamilton!"

"Only play I could suggest would be for him to put in the first and second teams at the same time," declared Phil. "Then we might have a chance to win by sheer weight of numbers!"

"Oh, it's not as bad as that," replied Milt, defensively. "If Speed just holds to his regular form this year, he'll give Hamilton plenty of trouble. He's crazy to make up for his fumble in last season's game. Have you seen him lately?"

"Not in three days. Have you?"

"No. I called around at his dorm yesterday but he wasn't in. About time we got together again. Speed's a great guy."

"And a mighty sweet football player," complimented Phil. "Well, here we are—outside the sanctum of the man who controls the destinies of Medford pigskin chasers. Shall I rap?"

"Sure—don't you see it says 'private'?"

A voice bade the callers to "come in!" and Phil and Milt presently found themselves standing before the genial-faced coach.

"Sit down!" Coach Brock invited, motioning to chairs. And when the two wondering visitors were seated, he came straight to the point with: "I understand you fellows know Speed Bartlett very well?"

Phil and Milt exchanged glances.

"Well ... er ... yes, sir ... we ...!"

"We're pretty good friends," temporized Milt. "Why—what's ... er ... happened?... Is Speed in trouble?"

Coach Brock smiled, amusedly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. Not necessarily serious trouble," he hastened to assure as Phil and Milt looked their concern, "but I want to guard against it getting any worse."

"Good grief!" exclaimed Milt, anxiously. "What's Speed done?"

"We haven't been out with him for some time," volunteered Phil, "so we wouldn't know anything."

"It's nothing like that," declared the Coach. "Speed's simply going to pieces over thoughts of the Hamilton game. I've got to break him of this or he's going to have himself in such a mental stew by game-time that he'll be next to useless."

"Oh—then you want us to brighten him up?" divined Phil.

Coach Brock shook his head. "No, there's only one thing that can have any effect upon Speed," he said, decisively. "He's got to be told that he can't play on Saturday. This will bitterly disappoint him, of course, but it will relieve him at the same time. But the fly in the ointment is how to make Speed believe that he's really not going to play. He knows very well that I wouldn't remove the star of the team without definite reason. Obviously, then, the only way we can put one over on Speed is to catch him breaking one of the strict rules I've laid down for members of the squad."

"Now I 'get' you," cried Phil, eagerly. "You want us to help get Speed in bad!"

"That's precisely it," agreed the coach. "And here's how you can do it. Take him over to Ashby in your car to catch the early evening show. There's a Knute Rockne two-reeler showing at the picture house that I'll recommend be seen. As you fellows know, my orders are for every man on the squad to be in his room and in bed by ten o'clock. Ashby is a good twenty miles from here and, after stalling for time you start back to Medford with just time enough left to get Speed to his dorm within the ten o'clock law. Unfortunately, however, your car breaks down and you are delayed getting back until after midnight."

"Quite a thrilling plot," agreed Milt.

"It calls for some real acting," opined Phil. "And if Speed ever caught on he'd darn near kill us!"

"Aren't you willing to die for your college?"

smiled Coach Brock. "I'll be within sight of the dorm so that I can manage to be passing when you drive up, several hours late, with Speed. What happens after that will be regrettable but hardly any fault of yours. Automobiles do break down ... even in the best of families!"

Phil and Milt grinned.

"But what if Speed doesn't care to see this picture?" queried Milt.

"I think he'll jump at the chance after the send-off I give to it this afternoon at practice," said the coach. "But I'll insist that all fellows who do make arrangements to take in the show, make a point of getting back by their accustomed hour."

"Okay!" accepted Phil. "We'll tackle Speed on the proposition after practice ... tell him we've just learned of the football program ... and that we're leaving in time to catch the seven o'clock show. Wouldn't he like to go along?"

"That's right," Coach Brock approved. "You can explain to Speed that the seven o'clock show will be over around nine o'clock which gives you a whole hour to drive the twenty miles back. Let me know, for sure, if you can make arrangements, and I'll be ready to do my part."

"We'll try our darndest," promised Phil.

"And, of course," the coach added, warningly, "it goes without saying that you are to keep this little matter strictly confidential. You are doing this, remember, for the team!"

Phil and Milt stiffened with a sense of their responsibility.

"You can trust us," they assured.

Speed Bartlett was quite innocent of any plot against him and quite glad to accept the invitation of his two friends to attend the show. In fact, he welcomed the opportunity as a means of possible relaxation. Coach Brock had spoken highly of the Knute Rockne short subject—declaring it to be extremely educational, particularly as pertained to open field running. Since this was supposed to be Speed's specialty, his curiosity was aroused.

"Strange you fellows should be interested in seeing this same show," mused Speed, on the way over. "It's a good break for me since I'm supposed to see it, anyway."

"Listen, Speed," declared Phil. "We're nuts over football. We'd go almost anywhere within reason to see a game or something interesting about it. And when we read in the paper that one of Knute Rockne's pictures was there ... well, that was enough for us!"

"Clever bird, this fellow, Knute," kidded Milt. "I'd place him next to Coach Brock."

Arriving at Ashby, Phil and Milt parked their car on a side street and were surprised to find a crowd waiting to get seats.

"Hello—they're doing some real business. Must be a great show!" exclaimed Milt, with a wink at Phil.

"Ten minutes after seven," said Speed, a bit disturbed.

"Oh, there's plenty of time," said Phil, "but I've got so in the habit of sitting that I hate to stand."

It was seven-thirty before the three patrons from Medford were escorted to seats and then it was to discover that the Knute Rockne feature had just finished.

"Tough luck," Milt whispered. "But it'll start the next show. We're all right."

The three then settled down to enjoy the feature picture and time sped quickly. It was ten after nine that the Knute Rockne short subject next flashed on the screen and its interest was compelling from the start. The two-reeler was over at nine-forty, much to Speed's concern when he discovered the time.

"Holy smoke!" he cried. "We've got twenty minutes to drive twenty miles. You fellows'll never make it!"

"We'll try!" declared Phil, optimistically, as they rushed for the car. "Gosh, where did that time go to?"

"Won't make much diff if we are a few minutes late," said Milt, reassuringly. "Coach won't hold you to account on this."

"But he made a point of saying we had to be back on time if we went," Speed recalled.

"Sure—he's got to keep his discipline up," rejoined Phil, sliding behind the wheel and working the starter. "What's the matter with this thing? Have I flooded the carburetor?"

The engine had refused to respond.

"That's probably what's the trouble," diagnosed Milt. "Turn off your gas entirely."

"Good grief!" groaned Speed, "Get going, you guys! I don't want to be any later than I have to!"

"Keep your shirt on!" soothed Milt. "There she spits! She'll catch hold in a minute. This little old bus hasn't failed us yet."

Another valuable minute shot past ... and another.

"Say—there goes the interurban!" said Medford's star halfback, nervously. "It makes Medford by ten-thirty. I'd better catch it!"

"Don't be foolish!" cried Milt, grabbing Speed and holding him in the car. "We'll be back in Medford before that traction! It's a concrete road most all the way!"

"Here we go!" announced Phil as the engine finally took hold. "Now—just as soon as we get beyond the city limits...!"

At ten o'clock, when all good little football players were supposed to be tucked in their beds or, at least, safe in their rooms, a runabout containing the outstanding star of Medford's eleven was whizzing along the highway with the indicator wavering between fifty and fifty five miles an hour.

"Nine miles in fifteen minutes!" figured Phil, eyes intent on the road ahead. "At that rate we'll be in Medford around ten-sixteen. You don't see that interurban do you?"

"It's just about leaving Ashby now!" grinned Milt. "How's this for traveling, Speed? This is just a little faster than you go down the field. Say—what did you think of that Rockne picture anyhow? Pick up any pointers?"

"Very interesting," admitted Speed. "But what's that I hear—is it a knock in the motor?"

"Careful, Phil!" warned Milt. "The old engine's getting too hot again. Better slow up!"

"What's the matter?" asked Speed, anxiously.

"Nothing much," answered Milt, "Only we can't hit it up too fast for too long a time. Might burn out a bearing or something!"

Phil reduced the speed from fifty to twenty miles an hour and still the knocking persisted.

"Sounds like it's almost out of gas," said Speed. "It's commencing to cough now!"

"Maybe it caught cold standing out there to-night," suggested Milt. "It is acting strangely. Wouldn't you say so, Phil?"

"Something's gone wrong," was Phil's grave comment. "I think there's some foreign substance clogging the carburetor!"

Pulling to the side of the road, Phil stopped the car.

"Now what?" gasped Speed, glancing at his watch.

"Have to take a look," said Phil, getting out and raising the hood. "Pass out the flashlight, Milt!"

"Which seat is it under?" asked the confederate in the dire conspiracy.

"How do I know?" was Phil's rejoinder.

A half hour of tinkering with the engine followed, during which an agitated Speed Bartlett paced up and down the highway, returning every few minutes to inquire the progress made.

"We can't even get the engine started now," was Milt's cheerful report. "It's a good thing we stopped when he did!"

"That's where you made your mistake," said Speed, irritably. "You never should have stopped!"

"No!" retorted Phil, caustically. "You should burn out a bearing on your car!"

"I haven't any car!" replied Speed, sharply.

"That's just the point!" returned Milt, smothering a chuckle. "But, don't worry, Speed, we'll explain to the Coach! Have a chocolate bar—there's one in my coat in the car."

"I can't eat anything," was Speed's glum rejoinder. "My stomach's on the blink."

A flashing headlight suddenly appeared from around a curve in the road.

"Heigho!" exclaimed Phil. "Here comes the interurban!"

"Quick—your flashlight!" cried Speed, with sudden resolution. "I'll flag it!"

Medford's football star dashed forward but Milt fumbled the flashlight in handing it over and by the time Speed got hold of it the interurban was whizzing past.

"I knew I ought to have gone home by traction!" he lamented, loudly. "Something told me not to go back with you guys! This is terrible!"

"Listen, Speed—you're getting all worked up over this," consoled Milt. "You crawl in the car there and curl up on the seat and get your sleep. That's why the Coach wants you to turn in at ten—so you'll get the right amount of sleep. If he should find out about this, we'll tell him you got your sleep just the same!"

"Sleep?" bellowed a greatly aggravated! Speed. "I haven't slept for four nights as it is! How can I sleep now?"

"Hey, Phil!" cried Milt, insinuatingly. "I'll fix this bird. Where's the monkey wrench?"

It was a quarter to one o'clock before a familiar looking runabout appeared in front of the MacDaniel Dormitory and the door popped open to let a highly exasperated and greatly worried athletic figure out. There was not a sign of another soul upon the campus, nor was there a light visible save the flickering street lamps.

"Coast is clear!" whispered Milt. "Awfully sorry, old boy, but nobody will be any the wiser. You sneak in to your room and...!"

"Hello, there!" sounded a voice. "Is that you, Speed?"

"Blue murder!" exclaimed an agonized fellow, under his breath, as he cringed against the side of the car. "That's Coach now!"

"It can't be!" said Phil, punching Milt knowingly with his elbow. "What would Coach be doing out this time of night?"

There were the sounds of footsteps approaching.

"Make a break for it!" advised Milt, hoarsely.

"I can't," moaned Speed. "I—I'm caught—cold!"

"Well!" addressed Coach Brock, as he got within real hailing distance. "Is this the time for you to be turning in? Who are these chaps with you?... Oh, yes—I see. Doran and Gleeson. Where have you been?"

"It's all our fault, Coach," Phil spoke up. "Milt and I took Speed over to see the Rockne picture at Ashby and ... and our car broke down on the way back."

"I've heard that story before," was Coach Brock's unfeeling reply. "What did I tell you, Speed, about being in by ten o'clock?"

"But, sir ... I ... er ... it was unavoidable," stammered Medford's star half-back. "I fully intended ..."

"Sorry, Speed!" cut short the Coach, severely. "Orders are orders. I'd like to make an exception but this wouldn't be fair to the other members of the squad. From now on you're under suspension and this act removes you from the game on Saturday!"

"No, Coach, no!" pleaded Speed. "You can't keep me out ... not for this! It's the first time I ever broke regulations and it wasn't intentional...!"

"Then why were you trying to sneak in the house?" demanded Coach Brock. "You didn't intend to report this infraction to me did you?"

"Well, er ... don't suppose I did," Speed was forced to confess. "I was afraid maybe you wouldn't understand."

"Hmm! It's a good thing I worked late at the office tonight," was the Coach's comment. "As it is, I understand only too perfectly. You'll turn in your suit tomorrow!"

Medford campus was thrown in a turmoil the next day, which was Tuesday, with the news of Speed Bartlett's suspension. The report was first treated as a rumor but when a crestfallen Speed himself would not deny it and when he did not appear on the field for practice, the awful truth finally dawned.

"It's good-bye game now!" mourned Medford fans. "Did you hear what Coach kicked Speed off the team for? Being out late! Can you fathom that? And Speed had a good reason, too ... he was in a car that broke down."

A wave of indignation swept the college that the star player should be ruled out of the big game of the year on a technicality, but Coach Brock, in issuing a brief statement, stood by his guns, declaring that discipline was necessary and the owners of the car, on further cross-examination, could not prove that anything was or had been wrong with the car. It was natural that such an excuse would be offered when the fellows were caught flat-footed. But none of the three, under questioning, would tell where they had been after leaving the theatre at Ashby.

The affect of Speed's removal on his fellow team members was to eliminate any possible tendencies toward over-confidence. In its stead a grim determination was born. Medford would have to make up for the loss of its star by a greater fighting spirit.

Speed himself, as disappointed as he was, suddenly discovered that his appetite had returned. Stomach muscles which had contracted under the nervous anticipation of the coming conflict, now relaxed and set up a cry for food to work upon. And, while Speed no longer reported to the training table, it was observed by a spying Phil and Milt that he ate abundantly but wisely.

"Coach sure knows his psychology," Milt said to Phil as they were crossing the campus the day before the game. "All that was the matter with Speed was a bad case of nerves...."

At the moment of this remark, the fellow in question was hurrying in an attempt to overtake his two friends, and had just gotten within earshot. Discovering that he was being talked about, Speed lagged curiously behind.

"Speed's got sand all right," he overheard Phil say. "But he worries too much before hand. You can imagine how bad it must have been for the training table with Speed sitting there like a guy with a load of lead in his stomach. The whole eleven's better off. It's a blow to have Speed suspended but Medford'll take the field tomorrow with a world of fight.

"And when Coach sends Speed into the game—maybe Medford spirit won't rise sky high!" chuckled Milt. "Boy, I guess maybe we didn't play our parts to perfection! We ought to get letters for this!"

Medford's star halfback stopped in his tracks and let his two friends continue on their way, not realizing that he was anywhere near them. He was burning with humiliation and resentment. So—this had all been a put-up job! Coach Brock had enlisted the services of his two chums to frame him ... to save his nerve for the big battle!

"I'll go to the Coach and tell him what I think of him!" was Speed's first reaction.

But more sober thought decided Speed against this step. There was truth in what Phil and Milt had said about him. He had been painfully conscious of his feelings toward the coming game. Even now, since he knew that Coach Brock intended reinstating him at the last moment, all the old nervous symptoms had returned, worse than ever. There was that heavy feeling in his stomach, the quickening of his pulse, the strained sensation in his head....

"I guess I wasn't such a good influence around the fellows in this condition," Speed reflected glumly. "But Coach put me off the team and I'm going to stay off the team. I'll fix him—I'll leave town tonight so he can't get hold of me!"

Saturday morning found the campus of Medford alive with old grads and loud-mouthed Hamilton rooters who told everyone who would listen, in no uncertain terms, what their eleven was going to do to the home team.

"Too bad your star is out of the game!" Hamilton lamented. "You'll be using that for an alibi—but we'd have beaten you either way!"

At noon, Coach Brock sent word by second team member, Kinky Doyle, that Speed Bartlett was to report to him at once. The Varsity had just left training table, having had an early lunch. In two hours they would be dressing for the game.

"Hey, Coach!" cried an excited Kinky fifteen minutes later. "I've just come from Speed's room. He's not there ... but I found this note—addressed to you!"

Coach Brock took the note, wonderingly, opened it, and read:

To Coach Brock, Medford College, Medford. Dear Sir: Since I have been removed from the team, I couldn't bear to stay and see the game, so I have left town. Yours, Speed.

"Great jumping Jehoshaphat!" swore Coach Brock, crumpling the paper. "The boy's gone crazy! Get hold of Doran and Gleeson at once!"

"Yes, sir!" blinked a wondering Kinky Doyle, hurrying off.

With Phil and Milt delivered to him, post haste, Coach Brock took them privately aside and showed them the note. Phil gasped and Milt whistled.

"Where would Speed have gone?" demanded the coach.

"I haven't the slightest idea," replied Milt. "Have you, Phil?"

"There's four different directions," Phil answered. "And one's as good as another!"

"Well, you've got to find him!" the Coach ordered. "You got him in this mess!"

"Us?" mumbled Phil and Milt, all but overcome.

"Don't argue!" snapped the Coach. "Get out and hunt him up! If Speed Bartlett doesn't play today, the game's as good as lost!"

"End of first half!" cried the radio announcer. "And what a game this has been!... But Hamilton's great team is proving too much for Medford today. They're out in front, two touchdowns, thirteen to nothing, which just about indicates the difference in playing strength. Medford's offensive hasn't been able to get going ... no doubt due to the loss of their backfield star, Speed Bartlett... Stand by, folks, we're to have a word now from Coach Brock of Medford...!"

There was a moment of prickling silence, then the sound of someone clearing a husky throat.

"I hope you will pardon me, radio football fans, for this brief intrusion," spoke Coach Brock. "But I am addressing this appeal to Speed Bartlett with the hope that he may be within the reach of my voice. I herewith apologize to him. Further ... er ... facts have just come to light in regard to his violation of the rules and were he here in Medford today he would be offered his place in the line-up. It is self-evident that Medford needs him...!"

A certain young man, standing in front of a radio store in Ashby, waited to hear no more. He rushed over to a taxi stand at the curb and hailed a driver who had been listening in on the game.

"What'll you charge to take me to Medford?"

The taxi driver almost fell from his seat.

"That's a fifteen dollar ride, son!"

"Okay!" accepted Speed, "And there's an extra five in it for you if you break all records getting there!"

"Have you got that much money?" asked the driver, incredulously.

"No," answered Speed, truthfully. "But Coach Brock has...!"

"Oh—be you Speed Bartlett?" exclaimed the driver, starting his car. "Suffering cats, boy! Then I'm gonna turn this old bus into a flyin' machine!"

"Good!" cried Speed, jumping in. "Oh—wait a second! I want to run in this telegraph office!"

A messenger boy, twenty minutes later, with the third quarter about four minutes under way, reached Coach Brock's side. The coach was intent upon the game inasmuch as his team was being pushed once more into the shadow of its own goal posts. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he took the yellow envelope and thrust it in a side pocket.

"Hey, Coach!" cried a substitute, grabbing his mentor by the arm. "That was a telegram!"

"Read it to me!" snapped Coach Brock, handing the wire over and not taking his eyes off the field.

The sub slit the envelope open and gazed at the message in bewilderment.

"Why—why—this is funny!" he exclaimed. "There's no name signed or anything—just one word...!"

"What is it?" asked the Coach. "Hold 'em out there! What's the matter with you fellows? Gordon, go in for Ochs at left tackle!... What did you say that one word was...?"

"The word is 'coming'!" announced the substitute.

Coach Brock whirled, interest quickening, and seized the yellow piece of paper.

"Coming?" he repeated. "Coming?... By George—this is from that goofy Speed Bartlett!... Jerry, you go in for Maltby at right guard. Get Pete to take a time-out and tell the team that Speed's on the way here. Tell those guys to buck up! Speed'll be in the game now ... he's due any minute!"

A second substitute raced out on the field and Coach Brock now excitedly examined the telegraph blank.

"Ashby!" he groaned, as he saw the office from which the wire was sent. "Twenty miles... He had ten minutes of the intermission minutes for time-outs ... plus two minutes' for the third quarter plus another ten to fifteen minutes for time-outs ... plus two minutes' intermission between quarters ... how much does that make? Can he get here before the game's over?... Why did that galoot have to go so far away?... Come on, team—the old fight!"

News that their backfield star was due to appear any second proved a tremendous bracer to a beaten team. Medford braced on her ten yard line and held the mighty Hamilton for downs, then punted out of danger. Medford did even more than this. As the third quarter drew to a close, she drove deep into Hamilton territory on her first sustained offensive of the day.

"Save the game for Speed!" became the slogan. "Put the old ball in scoring position!"

But the fourth quarter got under way with no sign of Speed Bartlett and Coach Brock was forced to wave a yellow slip of paper as proof that he hadn't been pulling a ruse on his team.

"He's coming!" the coach megaphoned. "This wire says so!"

"He must be coming from Florida!" growled quarterback Pete Slade. "Let's go, guys!... Maybe we can score without him!"

A taxi suddenly wheezed into the stadium, steam and water frothing from the radiator, the cap of which had been blown off. A figure leaped from the taxi before it had come to a stop and went racing toward the Medford bench. A section of the Medford crowd recognized the figure and set up a great hue and cry. The Medford team, hearing the outburst, immediately called for "Time out!"

"Pay this man twenty bucks!" Speed panted, pointing to the taxi driver, as Coach Brock embraced him, wildly. "How about my togs?"

"They're right here!" said the Coach. "Gather around him, you fellows. He'll have to change on the field ... no time to chase to the locker room!"

Clothes were fairly thrown at Medford's star halfback and willing hands helped strip him while other willing hands, almost too willing, fairly jerked on his moleskins. Meanwhile Coach Brock had shoved two ten dollar bills in the taxi driver's hand, wrapped a blanket around him and pushed him down on the bench alongside the substitutes.

"What's he doing this for?" asked the bewildered driver.

"Don't know," grinned the sub next him. "If he finds he needs you, he'll probably send you into the game!"

The time-out period exhausted, Medford resumed play with third down and eight to go on Hamilton's fifteen yard mark. But, so stimulating was the knowledge that Speed Bartlett was actually on the field, Medford opened up a hole which sent quarterback Pete Slade galloping through for a first down!

And then the top of the stadium all but lifted as Speed dashed out on the gridiron, buckling his belt. Team-mates greeted him like a long lost brother and Medford went into a huddle. The stands were in an uproar. Fullback Ned Turner went through for two yards to Hamilton's five yard mark.

There was nothing nervous about Speed Bartlett as he crouched in his position, waiting to hear his signal called. He had been given so much to think about on his wild ride from Ashby to Medford that the nerve strain had left him. He was coldly calm and grimly determined, obsessed with a desire to make up for lost time. An enthused Medford, having taken a severe battering from Hamilton earlier in the game, now tore into the enemy and made a slicing opening for her backfield star who flashed through and over the line for a touchdown on his first play.

Phil and Milt, just entering the stadium after a fruitless search for Speed, could not believe their eyes as they looked out on the gridiron.

"What's Coach been doing—kidding us?" they gasped. "Speed's been in the game all the time!"

Greater cheers as Speed kicked goal for extra point and the scoreboard changed to read: Hamilton, 13, Medford, 7.

"Six more minutes to play!" someone announced, hysterically. "Do it again, Speed, old boy!"

Team members exchanged words with Speed as they lined up to kick off to Hamilton.

"Boy, we thought you'd never get here!"

"So did I!" Speed grinned. "Been softening Hamilton up for me all this time, eh? Well, let's get another touchdown!"

A worried Hamilton, receiving the kick-off, was downed on her twenty-two yard mark. But three yards were gained on two tries and Hamilton punted, desperately resolved to hold the touchdown lead to the finish. It was Medford's ball on her own thirty-three yard line. But Medford now was playing with a frenzy and yet with a precision which it had not shown all season. Mixing line plays, end runs and lateral passes, with Speed Bartlett being given the ball three-fourths of the time, quarterback Pete Slade drove his warriors down to Hamilton's twenty yard mark with two minutes remaining.

"Listen, fellows!" said Speed, in a huddle, "I saw a play in a movie the other day ... one of Knute Rockne's ... and there's a weakness in Hamilton's line ... right where this play's supposed to go. It's an off-tackle smash ... and if the man with the ball gets through into the open field it's almost impossible to stop him...!"

"Give us the dope!" ordered quarterback Slade. "We're entitled to one more time-out!"

"Now what's Speed up to?" wondered Coach Brock, who, for the past five minutes had been biting off fingernails at a rapid rate. "Looks to me like he's been knocked goofy and is delivering the boys an oration!"

With the calling of time the team snapped back into position and a new formation took shape before an astounded Coach's eyes. The ball was passed and a hole was suddenly cracked open off left tackle. Through this hole a dashing Speed disappeared and then, as suddenly, reappeared in the face of Hamilton's surprised secondary defense. Two would-be tacklers were shunted out of the way by vicious Medford interference and Speed side-stepped another. The rest of the way to the goal line was unmolested and he romped across for his second touchdown of the quarter to tie the score at thirteen all!

"I never gave the boys that play," said Coach Brock. "But it's vaguely familiar. I've seen it some place before!"

"That play was shown in the Rockne picture!" informed a substitute.

Coach Brock blinked a moment, then put a hand to his head, staggered dizzily, and sat down. But he did not remain seated long for Speed Bartlett coolly toed the ball between the uprights for the point that sent Medford into the lead, fourteen to thirteen, just as the gun banged for the game's end, in one of the greatest last quarter finishes ever witnessed in the home stadium.

Phil and Milt were the first wild-eyed rooters to reach Medford's star halfback as other supporters swarmed on the field with one idea in mind—to tear down the goal posts. They hoisted a protesting Speed on their shoulders and hurried him across the field toward the Medford bench.

"Why carry me this way?" Speed shouted, looking down at them. "How about your car—is it broken down again?"

Something in the way Speed said this caused Phil and Milt to glance up suspiciously.

"How did you get wise?" Phil wanted to know.

"Never mind!" rejoined Speed. "Keep moving! Don't let this crowd catch me ... and keep me away from Coach Brock!..."

"Why?" gasped Milt. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing!" said Speed, "except I haven't had anything but a malted milk all day—and I'm darned hungry!"

"Can you beat that!" groaned Phil. "Hold up your side of him, Milt! He's getting darned heavy!... Here we've sacrificed ourselves to save this guy's nerves ... and then, in this last five minutes, we get all upset ourselves! My stomach's tied up in such a knot that I couldn't even digest a soda wafer."

"Don't mention stomach to me," said Milt. "I'm a nervous wreck!"

"Hey!" shouted a jubilant Coach Brock, who saw that a gathering crowd was carrying the star of the game in triumph to the locker room. "Wait for me, Speed!" Then, grinningly, he held up a yellow slip of paper and signalled with it. "Don't you see—you boob—I—I'm coming!"...

THE BRIGHT TOKEN

"Here, take this—it's your token of good luck," she had said. That was twenty years ago, when she was a wistful, dark-eyed slip of a girl and he a wiry, sandy-haired bundle of nerves that football authorities insisted on dubbing the best quarterback in Harvard history, a man who would certainly be accorded All-American honors at the conclusion of the season.

It was a bare hour before the game that he had met her in a secluded spot in the shadow of the stands. A cold rain was falling which, most every one admitted, made a Yale victory look overwhelmingly certain. He could remember how the delicately traced fingers had clung to the lapel of his sweater, and how, when he had started to take leave of her for the locker room, she had restrained him.

The fingers had gone to her throat, had fumbled there an instant, and had undone the slip of a crimson bow which had been caught at the collar of her waist. Tinglingly he could recall how she had commanded him to hold out his right wrist, how sheepish he had felt when she had tied the bow about it—and yet how proud! He had kissed it then and she had laughed, a laugh of nervous admiration, and patted him on the arm. And he had gathered her into one last, impulsive embrace and whispered, "My darling wife!"

Ah, that was twenty years ago! Twenty years! And yet memory made it yesterday; for to-day Carrington R. Davies was going back—back to the scene of it all—back to witness the annual clash with the Yale Bulldogs, and to sit in the stands where he would be pointed out as one of Harvard's greatest old-time football heroes.

Every year since his graduation, C. R. D. had gone back on the occasion of the Yale game—gone either to Cambridge or New Haven—and he intended to keep on doing it as many years as he was permitted to draw breath.

As Davies took the train at the Grand Central Station, New York, he glanced apprehensively at the gray sky overhead and hoped that the weather man who had prophesied rain was wrong. Harvard would need a dry field this year to stand an even chance at winning. Her back field was light, fast, and shifty. It depended on a quick get-away and a sure under-footing. Yale's eleven was solid, heavy from end to end, with a stubborn defense that had allowed but two touchdowns so far that season, and a pile-driving back field that moved slowly but surely behind a battering forward wall. If it rained, Davies reflected, Harvard's last vestige of hope was due to be trampled in the mud.

And yet twenty years before, almost to the day, with a driving rain falling and Yale dangerously near Harvard's goal in the last quarter, the game locked in a grim nothing-nothing tie, a bespattered, sandy-haired youth with a crimson bow encircling his right wrist, had scooped up a fumble at his very goal line and dodged and slipped through the whole Eli team for a frenzied touchdown.

The final score of that heart-blasting contest had been five to nothing, and the sensational length-of-the-field run had clinched for the Harvard quarterback his right to All-American honors. The feat was talked about yet, wherever Harvard men gathered who had witnessed the spectacle of victory jerked from the grinning jaws of defeat. At the Harvard Club on Forty-fourth Street, New York, Carrington frequently ran into brother alumni who said, "I remember you when——" and then he was forced to listen to their versions of his crowning football achievement.

Davies found solace in going over old times. The Harvard Club was his haven of refuge. He was one of the best known men there. To enter the dining room was to nod to men at practically every table. There was a joy in feeling that he was among friends; in having his praises sung to younger grads by those who had chummed with him in college; to have his football prowess perpetuated by retelling.

It was nothing to C. R. D. that he was recognized also as one of the leading architects in New York City. He had worked hard the past twenty years, but perhaps it was not so much because he had yearned to go forward as it was to keep him from thinking too much on certain closed incidents of his life.

At times, like this morning, he found himself trying to piece together what his father, Martin S. Davies, would have told him had he not died with the words on his lips. It was only four years back. The elder Davies had been stricken suddenly while Carrington was in the West, and a wire had brought the son on the first train. He was told, on arrival, that the father was desperately ill; that he had held to the weakening thread of life and consciousness because of a strong-willed desire to impart some vital information to his son.

However, when Carrington Davies had been led into the sick room, the father, overcome with emotion, died from the shock, his fingers clutching the arms of his son, his eyes set upon his son's face, and the words: "Your wife—I—she's at——" trailing off into the darkness with him.

For days after, when all his father's effects had been painfully gone over, Davies had sat in frenzied study. It had been years since he had given serious thought to the brief, tragic romance of his college days. He had suffered keenly for a time, but his father's counsel had held weight with him, held weight even though he could never forget the girl, nor that day of days when she had plighted her faith in him with the dainty crimson bow and he had gone out on the field of battle feeling like a gladiator. A silly, lovesick fool he had been, perhaps, on that glorious day; but no incident in his entire life thereafter quite came up to this.

When he had become older and more mature, when he had reached an age at which he could better judge the sort of woman he should marry, Davies, as his father said he would, had come upon the discovery that all feminine creatures were hopeless bores. Thus his unattached state grew to be recognized as perennial, and whatever romance he enjoyed came to him through the cultivated channels of his memory.

How angry his father had been when he had found that Davies had secretly married! The boy had written home for the family blessing and had received, by return mail, the family curse. Carrington Davies came of too good and wealthy a stock to have been inveigled into marrying a nobody, his proud parents told him. Why, the girl was an orphan, her parents had been dead some years, and she was employed at serving in a quaint little tea room under the brow of the university.

It was quite natural that a girl of her circumstances should have roped Davies in. Any girl who had really cared would have insisted that he wait until after graduation. Should this marriage become known to college authorities, Davies would be expelled. And then where would he be? Disgraced! His career ruined! And ruined by a girl who had cleaved to him only for the money that he represented!

Martin S. Davies made a special, hurried trip to Cambridge to make his son see all these points. And the elder man brought plenty of money to make any others concerned see as he wanted them to see. The affair was successfully hushed up. Carrington Davies, threatened with being disowned if he did not do exactly as his father dictated, had stood by powerless.

He reflected now that this had been the biggest mistake of his life. But years of strict obedience to his parent had awed him, awed him into letting his father approach Hazel Nubbins, the girl who had so shortly before become his wife. What the elder Davies said to her or what proposition he made, the son never knew. But he recalled the satisfied expression his father wore on returning from the interview, when he said:

"It's all right, son. I've fixed everything. Now, for God's sake don't ever get into a jam like this again!"

And the next day Carrington Davies heard that the girl had left the place of her employ, pleading ill health. Weeks later, when he had come out of the daze occasioned by these happenings, Davies had been unable to obtain any information as to Hazel's whereabouts. And gradually, as the weeks stretched out into months, the whole affair shaped itself into the memory of a vaguely pleasant dream which had turned out a blundering nightmare.

Now, as he sped over the rails on the football special bound for Cambridge, his thoughts came racing back to the present at the dash of something against his window, a something that left a running streak.

"Rain!" exclaimed Davies disappointedly. "Drizzling, cold rain! The devil hang the weather man, anyhow!"

As the trip progressed the rain did likewise, true to forecast. At twelve fifteen, when the special arrived at Brighton, a stop one mile from the stadium, Davies stepped into a sullen, sweeping downpour. There was little hilarity among the detraining football followers, and crimson colors gave way to the somber black of umbrellas. Davies raised his coat collar and pulled down his hat brim, making a dash for a store front that carried a light-lunch sign.

It seemed that almost every one else made a dash for the same place at the same time, and the race proved a dead heat with the first fifty. These just managed to squeeze inside, Davies being about the forty-seventh by half an elbow and several sore toes. It made him feel as if he was bucking the line again; only there was little relish to it this time, with the general pell-mell and every one calling out his order in place of the familiar, "Rah, rahs!"

Just how Davies at last came by a Swiss-cheese sandwich and a cup of pleasantly hot and fragrant coffee he never quite knew. He just found himself jostled along, automatically holding out his hands when he came up against the counter, taking what was thrust into them, putting it out of sight as quickly as possible, while some one behind him was fighting for his place, and then following the path of least resistance, which led to the cashier's perch where the extent of his hasty appetite was checked up in so many cents.