Yardley’s first chance to score came within three minutes of the kick-off, after Forest Hill’s quarter had fumbled on the second play and Stark had fallen on the ball near the twenty-yard line. But although the Blue worked down to within twelve yards of the goal, the attack weakened and the pigskin changed hands. Forest Hill kicked on first down and the play went to the middle of the field. And about the middle of the field, with small advantage to either side, it stayed for the rest of the twelve-minute period, with neither team being able to gain much ground.

A minute or two before the whistle sounded The Duke carelessly arose, yawned, stretched and wandered away down the line. Now and then he paused to look back at the play or to speak to an acquaintance, but presently, having left the grand stand far behind, he doubled back and hurried around between the stand and the tennis courts, reappearing at the entrance just as the two teams, donning blankets, paused for the two-minute intermission. The Duke pushed his way through the throng with an important air and faced the sloping tiers.

“Mr. Gibson wanted at the telephone!” announced The Duke loudly. “Is Mr. Gibson here?”

Without appearing to look in his direction The Duke saw the Broadwood fellow start in his seat, look indecisively down and settle back again.

“Mr. Gibson wanted at the ’phone!” he continued, passing along in front of the stand. “Mr. Gibson wanted at the ’phone immediately. Is Mr. Gibson here?”

The fellows took up the cry. “Is Mr. Gibson here? O you Mr. Gibson! Show yourself, Gib! There he goes! Here he is! Who wants Gibson? I don’t! O you Mr. Gibson!”

At the first aisle a tall, broad-shouldered youth in a derby hat was picking his way down as unostentatiously as possible. The Duke turned back and met him as he reached the ground.

“Is your name Gibson?” he asked. The other nodded. “You’re wanted at the ’phone. I’ll show you where it is.”

Followed by the youth in the derby, The Duke pushed his way through the crowd about the entrance. Back of him a whistle shrilled and the teams lined up once more.

“Do you know who wants me?” asked Gibson as they started up the path.

“I couldn’t say,” replied The Duke. “Nice day for the game, isn’t it? You’re a Forest Hill fellow, aren’t you?”

“Hm,” responded the other noncommittally. “Where is this telephone?”

“Oxford,” replied The Duke, leading the way around the front of the gymnasium and thereby lengthening the journey. “It’s right around the corner here.” A burst of cheering came from the field below them and Gibson looked regretfully over his shoulder.

“Those are your fellows cheering,” said The Duke. “I shouldn’t wonder if you beat us to-day. How many of you came along?”

“Er—quite a number; forty or fifty, I guess. This the building?”

“Next,” said The Duke, conducting the visitor past Merle. “Here we are.” They went up the steps of Oxford and The Duke led the way down the dim and silent corridor to the telephone booth. Politely he opened the door and, Mr. Gibson once inside, politely and very carefully he closed it. The click of the lock was simultaneous with the lifting of the receiver from the hook.

“Hello! Hello! This is Mr. Gibson.... What say?... Gibson!...”

The Duke, stealing softly down the corridor, heard no more. At the doorway he cast a fleeting glance back at the booth. Then he slipped from sight. Halfway back to the field he paused and did an erratic breakdown, with much snapping of fingers and many loud chuckles. Then, pulling his features back into their former innocence of expression, he went on. He reached the gridiron at an exciting moment and had seated himself between Gerald and Harry before his fellow-conspirators realized his return. Then,

“All right?” whispered Gerald.

The Duke, supremely interested in the game, closed one eye slowly and portentously. Gerald grinned. Harry hugged a foot ecstatically. “Like a sheep to the slaughter,” whispered The Duke gloatingly. “Oh, what do you suppose he’s saying to Central?”

“How long will he stay there?” asked Harry.

“Until he gets out. There’s no one in the Office on Saturday afternoons. Anyway, they couldn’t hear him—unless he broke a window and yelled like sixty. Did you tell Perky?”

“Yes, and they’ve worked a couple of the new plays already.”

“Tried to, you mean,” corrected Harry gloomily. “They didn’t gain much.”

“Anyone scored?” asked The Duke.

“Not yet. No one’s had a chance. Kendall tried a placement from the forty-five yards and missed by a yard. Too bad. He had the wind with him, too.”

“Pete made a rotten pass, though,” said Gerald. “Simms had to scramble for it. It’s a wonder they got the kick off at all. There’s the whistle. Half’s over.”

As the players seized their blankets and trotted off the field Davis hurried up to the trio beside the rope.

“What did you do with him?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Do with him? With who?” asked The Duke innocently.

“Gibson.”

“Perky, you jump to conclusions,” returned The Duke calmly. “If anything has been done to Mr. Gibson you shouldn’t lay it to me. I have nothing but the kindest, sweetest sentiments toward the gentleman.”

“Oh, chop it! Is he—is he safe?”

“Oh, I do hope so!” replied The Duke. “Don’t tell me that anything has happened to him, Perky!”

“Quit kidding,” begged Davis. “I want to know. Can we go ahead with the new plays, Duke? Will he be back?”

“Blessed if I know. I know he isn’t here now, but there’s no telling how long he’s going to stay away. Tell you what, Perky. I’ll stand at the entrance and keep watch. If I see him coming back I’ll pass the word to you and you can tell Payson.”

“All right. I’ll tell Payson that. Don’t miss him, though.”

“Nary a miss, Perky!”

The Duke, followed by Gerald and Harry, went to take up a position at the corner of the grand stand and Davis scurried off to the gymnasium in the wake of the team. The Duke, hands in pockets, wandered outside and viewed the path. But save for the players trotting up the steps of the gymnasium and Davis speeding to overtake them no one was in sight.

“Look here,” said Gerald, who had been studying the situation in his mind, “what that fellow will do is to tell Central that he’s locked up in the booth. Then Central will telephone to Merle or Clarke and they’ll let him out. We didn’t think of that.”

The Duke frowned. “That’s so,” he acknowledged. “And it’s dollars to doughnuts Central will get Collins on the ’phone and then there will be the dickens to pay!”

“Thunder!” breathed Harry.

“Just so,” agreed The Duke. “Well, I’m in for it now, so there’s no use worrying and getting a wrinkle. After all, it was a patriotic deed and my conscience is at peace. I done it for the good of my fellow critters.”

“I don’t see how Collins will know it was you,” said Harry hopefully. The Duke viewed him with a pitying eye.

“Merely because I paraded up and down in front of the grand stand yelling my little heart out for Mr. Gibson, Harry. Collins may be dense, but I think he will be able to follow that clue; what?”

“He will get you,” acknowledged Gerald sadly. “The question is——”

“The question is what will I get! Well, never mind. What’s done is did. And here comes the team again and Mr. Gibson is not in sight. What I should have done after getting him in there was cut the line!” He looked longingly up the hill. “Maybe it isn’t too late yet,” he added musingly.

“Then you would get it!” said Gerald. “I guess you’ve done enough, Duke.”

“Sure; too much is plenty! Anyway, if Mr. Gibson doesn’t get back before the game’s over I’ll be satisfied.”

The Yardley team came piling through the entrance, Merriwell in the lead, Coach Payson and Davis following. As he passed Davis lifted his eyebrows questioningly and The Duke returned a reassuring shake of the head. Davis whispered to the coach and the latter smiled demurely as he passed on to the field.

“You fellows,” said The Duke presently, “had better get away from here. If they see you sticking around with me they’re bound to think you had a hand in it.”

“So we did,” replied Gerald.

“So you didn’t! What did you do, I’d like to know. Move on now, move on! Don’t block the sidewalk!”

“Oh, who cares?” asked Harry. “It’s only a joke, anyway. They can’t do anything to any of us.”

“Besides, Gibson won’t make a fuss,” said Gerald. “He won’t want to confess that he came over to spy on the team.”

“Well, suit yourselves,” replied The Duke with a shrug of his shoulders. “If you must have trouble, have it. They’re kicking off.”

The three saw the game, or as much of it as they could, from their post, at the same time keeping a sharp watch for the reappearance of Mr. Gibson. The third period proved conclusively that Yardley still had much to learn about offense. Her attack in the middle of the field was fairly strong and at times showed flashes of brilliancy, but once past the thirty-yard line her play slowed up and all the “punch” vanished. Forest Hill, although light, was remarkably quick and decidedly “scrappy.” She had many defeats to atone for and when the third period ended, like the previous ones, without a score against her it was evident that she had come to the conclusion that here was the opportunity to obtain vengeance. She started the fourth quarter with a dash and vim that startled the spectators and staggered the Blue team. Her back-field, working together beautifully, fooled Yardley time and again and made short and steady gains until the ball was well down in the Blue’s territory and Simms was imploring his men to “stop them!” It was only the Blue’s secondary defense that stood between Forest Hill and a score, for the Yardley line was too slow and played too high and the Forest Hill backs sliced through it almost at will. Payson made two changes when the ball was down on the Blue’s thirty-two yards, putting in Jackson for Fales and Jensen for Stark. And later, just before the end of the game, Best relieved Girard at center. The rest of the team, however, played the contest through, and that without gaining much credit. Yardley captured the ball on her twenty-five-yard line, worked a double pass for a slight advance and then punted out of danger.

But Forest Hill came back desperately. Her quarter led a glorious attack and what had been on the point of happening for two periods finally happened. An on-side kick was recovered by a Forest Hill back, Metz and Crandall each missed a tackle and the runner after tearing off nearly twenty yards, was finally downed by Simms on the Blue’s seventeen yards. The ball was well over toward the side of the field when the two teams lined up again and a skin-tackle play gained two yards and brought the pigskin nearer the center of the field. The full-back trotted to the twenty-five-yard line and, although the angle was severe, it seemed that a drop-kick might put the ball over. But Forest Hill, smarting under many defeats, disdained a victory so simply bought. The ball went back to the outstretched arms, but the full-back didn’t kick. Instead he dashed off across the field, with the two teams trailing after him, found a chance to turn in, eluded one player after another while the Forest Hill supporters on the stand shrieked their triumph, and, finally, dragging two Yardley players after him, staggered and crawled across the goal line!

That touchdown spelled defeat for Yardley and even the staunchest supporter of the Blue realized it. Even though Forest Hill failed at the goal the lead was too big to overcome in the two or three minutes that remained. But Yardley went desperately to work again. It was agreed afterward that had she played during the first of the game as she played then there would have been a different tale to tell. Using every play he knew, Simms, when a lucky fumble gave Yardley the ball after the kick-off, hurled his backs and tackles against the weakening Forest Hill line. From their own forty yards to the enemy’s thirty-five they went, gaining their distance at times by only an inch or two, but always gaining it. And there, with the timekeeper proclaiming forty seconds left, Kendall was sent back to the forty-five-yard line, while the stand held its breath, took the ball breast-high from Best, dropped it lightly to earth and sent it spinning as straight as an arrow over the very center of the cross-bar!

Let us be thankful for small favors. Five to three was better than five to naught, and Yardley cheered philosophically and rose up in the grand stand and called Kendall blessed. And at the entrance The Duke, casting one final glance up the hill, derived what satisfaction he might from a plot well carried out.

Forest Hill, all smiles, hurried off with the captured football, and Yardley, rather glum and very tuckered, wrapped her blankets about her and trotted back to the gymnasium under the stigma of her first defeat.

Gerald and Harry were inclined to dejection, although Kendall’s brilliant goal from the field was a mitigating ray in the surrounding gloom of failure. But The Duke, with the fine bravado of one on the way to the guillotine, refused to be downcast.

“Who cares?” he demanded. “What’s Forest Hill to us? She showed us we weren’t as good as we thought we were and that ought to help. It’s Broadwood’s scalp we want, fellows, and to-day’s little setback will do us a lot of good. Besides,” he chuckled, “our friend Gibson is returning empty-handed. Let us rejoice and make merry, O my comrades, for to-morrow we die! At least, I do!”