Time seemed to fly that next week. Sunday vanished almost before Dick knew it was there, and he scarcely found time to write his letters, one to his father and one to Sumner White. The latter was rather a difficult missive, for he couldn’t manage to get all the cordiality into it that he thought Sumner would expect to find. The words looked all right, but they sounded insincere. Then Monday fled quickly, the afternoon occupied with much hard work on the gridiron for the second-string players and a light warming-up for those who had borne the brunt of the battle against Chancellor. Tuesday brought everyone back into strenuous practice and the afternoon was given over to trying out five new plays against the Second and to a grilling signal drill. The evening sessions continued as well. Mass meetings became almost nightly occurrences and Parkinson sang and yelled and became daily more enthusiastic and more filled with football spirit. Every line of news or rumour from Kenwood was avidly read and discussed and the tide of patriotism ran high. Wednesday noon brought another epistle from Sumner White, a brief and rather chaotic note which was as follows:

“Don’t pay any attention to the Whitworth game. We weren’t out to win and we saved our best men for Thursday. At that the score wasn’t bad and Whitworth wouldn’t have scored the second touchdown if we hadn’t had most of our subs in. Well, it’s all settled for next Friday. Charlie and Will and Jim are coming, and one other. That’s five of us. Theo can’t go. His mother’s sick. Went to the hospital today. And Townsend’s backed out. Some of the girls are crazy to go, but of course they can’t. Everything lovely here. We’re going to win on Thanksgiving, that’s final, Dick. Well, see you Saturday, old scout. So long. Sum.”

Dick wondered who the “one other” might be and why Sumner hadn’t told, but the question didn’t occupy his thoughts long. He read that letter to Stanley, watching ferociously for any sign of levity, and was a bit disappointed when he saw none. He was in a mood to have welcomed a scrap!

That afternoon he and Stone alternated at driving the big team against the Second in the last scrimmage before the final game, and it proved to be the hardest and most blood-thirsty encounter of the season. The Second, with nothing to lose, was resolved to finish in a blaze of glory, and the way they went at the enemy was a marvel. Before scrimmage and after it they might be friends and well-wishers, but while the battle was on friendship was at an end and they fought like wild-cats. They scored in the first ten minutes, pushing straight through the First’s line for a clean touchdown and kicking a goal afterwards, and they scored again from the field within twenty seconds of the final whistle. And the best the First could do in retaliation was to get two touchdowns without goals. So the score at the end was 12-10 and the Second viewed the result as a nominal victory and ended the training season in a condition of wild triumph, parading around the field, singing and cheering, to their own delight and the amused approval of the school at large.

Dick emerged from the fracas with a damaged nose and several painful but unimportant contusions, and scarcely anyone else fared much better. The Second Team players were tattered and disfigured and gloried in their wounds. Altogether, it was a disreputable and motley bunch of vagabonds that gathered in the locker room after the trouble was over, and, having buried the hatchet, discussed the late unpleasantness in all its details and speculated as to its bearing on the big game. The coaches, for Mr. Driscoll had been assisted by two and sometimes three enthusiastic graduates during the past week, wore expressions of satisfaction, just such expressions, as “Short” Davis, confided to Dick, as the spectators doubtless wore in ancient Rome after a particularly gory entertainment in the arena! Dick accidentally heard one of the assistant coaches confide to another that “whether those chaps can lick Kenwood or not, Perry, they sure can fight!”

Perhaps some of the fighting mood remained with Dick after he had washed away the stains of battle and was on his way across to Sohmer in the deepening twilight. At all events, the theory serves as an explanation of what happened when, just outside the hall, Sandy Halden and another fellow encountered the returning gladiator.

“Behold the world-famed athlete!” declaimed Sandy, adding a laugh that was far more annoying than the words. His companion laughed, too, but somewhat embarrassedly. Dick scowled and pushed past toward the steps. But Sandy wasn’t through. “Hicksville’s Hero!” he went on grandiloquently. “He says so himself!”

What happened then was performed so quickly that Dick was nearly as surprised as Sandy. Sandy was prone on the grass well beyond the edge of the walk, his companion was a dozen yards away in flight and Dick was standing supreme on the first step at the entrance. Presumably Dick had pitched Sandy where he lay, but Dick had little recollection of having done so. Or of having regained the steps afterward. He had given way to a sudden and overmastering anger and had acted without conscious thought. Now, however, the anger was gone and in its place was a wholesome amusement.

“Better get off the grass, Halden,” he volunteered cheerfully. “That’s just been seeded there.”

Halden got off, but he didn’t resent the attack. Instead, he brushed himself silently and unnecessarily, avoiding a glance at Dick until he straightened up again. Then with a look so malevolent that Dick wondered at it, he said in a low voice that shook with passion: “All right, Bates! That settles you!”

Dick laughed, but not with much amusement. Somehow, the threat conveyed in the other’s tone precluded amusement, even though, as Dick reasoned a moment later, Halden had no power to harm him. Sandy turned and rejoined his waiting but discreet companion and went his way without further notice of his assailant. Dick, already ashamed of his fit of temper, went on upstairs. Fortunately, perhaps, none had seen the swift incident, and he was very glad of it. He didn’t say anything about it to Stanley although that youth was doubled up on the window-seat reading.

Dick had heard a good many gibes, generally good-natured, about his “heroism” and athletic fame, for the story of the happening at the movie house Saturday night had swiftly gone the rounds of the school, and had shown no resentment until Sandy Halden’s taunt. He had meant to keep his temper under any provocation, for the best way to banish ridicule is to laugh at it, but Sandy had somehow managed to touch him on the raw. Perhaps had he been less tired and less sore he would have treated Sandy’s taunt with the same smiling insouciance with which he had accepted others. For some undefined reason the incident bothered him all the rest of the evening, even during the blackboard lecture in the Trophy Room when his thoughts ought to have been given entirely to Coach Driscoll’s expositions. Afterwards he viewed that uneasiness as a premonition.

It was at eleven on Thursday that the blow fell. A hurry call led him from a Latin recitation to Coach Driscoll in the gymnasium office. The coach looked unusually solemn, Dick thought, as he pushed open the door and entered. Mr. Tasser, the physical director, was there as well, but he went out immediately, leaving his room to the coach and Dick.

“Sit down, Bates,” began Mr. Driscoll. “I’ve got rather an unpleasant matter to discuss, my boy.” He took a long white envelope from a pocket and from it produced two pieces of paper which he handed to Dick. “Ever see those before, Bates?” he asked.

Dick accepted them wonderingly. One was a fragment of letter paper, much creased, the other the lower right hand corner of an envelope, roughly matching the scrap of letter paper in shape, suggesting that the latter had been in the envelope when torn and that both had subsequently been crumpled up together. The fragment of envelope bore the words:

The envelope had been torn in such manner that the name of the addressee was lacking. Dick studied the two fragments in puzzlement. Then he handed them back.

“I’ve seen this before, sir,” he answered. “It’s the corner of a letter I wrote and didn’t send. This piece of envelope doesn’t belong with it. The writing is not mine and I never saw it before.”

Mr. Driscoll shot a sharp glance at the boy which Dick met unflinchingly. “You’re quite certain of that, Bates?” he asked.

“Quite, sir.”

Mr. Driscoll looked thoughtfully at the fragments in his hand. “These have every appearance of belonging together,” he objected. “You say, however, that this is not your writing on the envelope.”

“No, sir, it isn’t,” answered Dick positively. “You can see the difference yourself.”

“Perhaps, but frequently one unconsciously alters the appearance of his writing when addressing a letter. One uses rather more care in an effort toward legibility, Bates. At least, the two writings are much alike, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, in a general way. But I never make a capital K like that. I don’t think I could. And the A isn’t much like mine either.”

“I see. Now in this letter, Bates, there seems to have been a good deal about football. At the bottom here I read: ‘call this the Two-Over and use it only when other fellow is playing his backs well out.’ That refers, I presume, to the tackle-and-half-over play that we’ve been using in practice lately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who were you writing to Bates?”

“Sumner White, sir. He’s captain of our high school team at home.”

“And home is somewhere in Pennsylvania?”

“Leonardville. You see——”

“One moment, please, Bates. Have you been in the habit of writing to this fellow White about our plays?”

“No, sir, not exactly. He asked me when I came away to tell him about anything new that he could use. There wasn’t much, though. I explained our defence for the ‘big shift’ and told him about a lateral pass and about this ‘two-over.’ I guess that’s all, sir. I suppose I shouldn’t have done it, but it never occurred to me that there was any harm in it. You see, Mr. Driscoll, the coach at home isn’t much. He doesn’t know about new stuff, and he just pegs away at the things folks used five years ago. And the teams we play—I mean that the High School plays—are pretty up-to-date. So I tried to help the fellows by telling them about anything I learned here that might be useful. I—I guess I oughtn’t to have, though.”

“No, you ought not to have done that, Bates,” agreed the coach gravely. “You see, you never can tell where a secret is going to land. It would seem safe to say that Kenwood would pay no attention to anything going on in a place like Leonardville, away off in Pennsylvania; would never hear of it. But suppose, for instance, some fellow in your town had a friend at Kenwood and wrote him that the local high school had a pretty nifty play and sent him a diagram of it.”

“I’m pretty sure there isn’t any fellow in Leonardville, though, like that, Mr. Driscoll.”

“I’m not saying there is. I’m only giving you an example of the way secrets get around. There are other ways in which that ‘two-over’ play might reach Kenwood. A newspaper writer might explain it in an account of a game, for instance. It isn’t safe to even write about such things in your letters home, Bates. I didn’t caution you or any of the players, for I supposed you’d realise that what goes on in practice is a secret and not to be spoken of off the field. When was this letter written?”

Dick thought hard a moment. “About two weeks ago, sir.”

“And it wasn’t sent. Why?”

“I hadn’t finished when it came time to go to a recitation and I slipped it in a book and couldn’t find it later. So I wrote another. And then, a couple of days afterward, I came across this one in the book and tore it up and threw it away.”

“Where did you throw it?”

“I don’t remember, sir. I think, though, I dropped it in one of the paper barrels on the Front; maybe the one at this side of Parkinson.”

“Anyone see you do it?”

“I suppose so. I guess there were fellows around.”

“Hm. Who do you know at Kenwood, Bates?”

“No one, sir.”

“Positive? I understand that you have corresponded with someone there quite regularly since you came here.”

“That’s not so, Mr. Driscoll. I’ve never written a letter to Kenwood Academy in my life and I don’t know anyone who goes there. I suppose what happened is that the piece of my letter and the piece of envelope happened to be found together. Who found them, sir?”

Mr. Driscoll shook his head. “I agreed not to bring him into it, Bates. There’s no reason why I should. He has, I guess, no wish to appear in the rÔle of a spy. He found this evidence and handed it over to me as it was his duty to. I wish——” He fell silent, frowning at the two scraps of paper. Then: “Are you a rapid writer, Bates?” he asked.

“Not very, I guess.”

The coach took a pad of paper from the desk beside him and a fountain pen from his pocket. “Suppose you write what I tell you to on that,” he said. Dick laid the pad on his knee and waited. “Ready? Write ‘Massachusetts Academy Kenwood,’ please.”

Dick wrote and the coach accepted the result and viewed it intently. Then he shook his head. “Your K and your A aren’t like the others, Bates, but there’s a certain similarity. Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I want to believe you, my boy, but this—this evidence is rather convincing. Look here, can you prove to my satisfaction that this letter was intended for this friend in Loganville and not meant for someone at Kenwood?”

“Leonardville, sir. I don’t know. I can get Sumner to write to you and say that I sent him a letter containing what you read there, although worded differently, probably, and some other letters like I’ve told you. Would that do?”

“It would certainly help. Hang it, Bates, you must see yourself that the thing looks bad!”

“Yes, sir, I guess it does,” agreed Dick dispiritedly. “All I can say is that it was done thoughtlessly and that I’ve never had any correspondence with Kenwood. Why should I want to give away our plays to Kenwood, Mr. Driscoll?”

“I don’t know, Bates. You’ve worked hard and made good and I don’t believe you’re the sort of fellow that would do a dishonourable act. You have been careless and thoughtless, but I’d like mightily to believe that your account of it is right. If you’ll wire to this fellow White——”

“Why, he’s coming here Saturday, sir! I just remembered! Would it do if we waited and—and talked to him?”

“Coming here? Of course it would! That’s fine! But how does it happen that he’s coming to Warne?”

Dick somewhat shamefacedly explained and the coach smiled at his embarrassment. “Well, it seems that you’re more of a hero than I suspected, Bates,” he said quite in his usual manner. “I had heard something about it, too, of late.” He added that with a twinkle, and Dick smiled ruefully.

“That was a beastly joke of Wallace Blashington’s sir. He—he heard somehow about—about this and thought he’d have some fun with me.”

“I see. Well, now, Bates, let’s see where we stand. You produce this White chap Saturday before the game and if he can put a quietus on this story I’ll be satisfied. No one has heard anything about this matter except—the fellow who found these pieces of paper and I. And no one will hear. I guess I’m pretty well convinced already, my boy! Now don’t let this bother you. It will come out all right, I’m sure. And if it does—as it’s going to—we’re going to need your best work the day after tomorrow. Come and see me Saturday, Bates, and—— By the way, what time do you expect this Mr. White?”

“I think he will be in on that train that gets here at twelve-ten, sir.”

“Hm, rather late! But that can’t be helped. You switch him over here to me as soon as he arrives and we’ll nail this thing right away. That’s all, Bates. Sorry this had to come up, but as it has I’m glad we’re going to clear it up so nicely.” Mr. Driscoll offered his hand and Dick shook it and went out.