He made quick time down the walk to the gate, through State street to West and so into the Saturday night throngs. The messenger’s theory that Chick had been hurt, alarming for the instant, was soon discarded by Bert. What was far more probable was that Chick had played pool again, lost and was unable to meet his obligations. Probably Mooney was holding him as hostage. Bert frowned at the recollection that his present wealth was represented by two silver quarters and one nickel. If Chick’s indebtedness exceeded fifty-five cents he was, Bert thought, likely to remain a hostage!

Mooney’s was doing a land-office business when Bert reached it. The long vista of green tables was half shrouded in blue smoke through which coatless players moved to and fro. The lines of chairs on each side held almost uninterrupted rows of spectators. The click of the ivory balls and the tapping of cues were barely heard above the steady bedlam of talk. Near the entrance a cigar case and a desk met at an angle, and the square space behind was used as a sort of office. Chick’s head was visible above the cigar case as Bert’s glance roved away from the tables. Nearby stood a small, wiry, leather-cheeked man whom Bert guessed to be Mike Mooney. There were none others inside the inclosure. Bert went forward and leaned across the display of cigars.

“Did you send for me, Chick?” he asked.

Then he saw for the first time that Chick’s forehead was swathed in a rough bandage and that there was a large red stain against the white cloth.

“What happened?” he exclaimed.

Chick turned his head slowly and grinned. He looked pale, and the grin was palpably effected only after an effort. The proprietor interposed briskly. “You his friend?” he asked Bert. “Well, say, get him out of here, will you? It don’t do my place no good to have him sittin’ around like that.”

“Why, yes, but—but what—how—”

“Shot off his mouth,” explained Mike in a lowered voice. “Feller biffed him with a cue. I didn’t see it, and I don’t know what they was jawin’ about, but that’s how I got it. He’s all right now. Sort of woozy, though, and you’d better get a taxi, I guess.”

“I’ll walk,” said Chick, pulling himself from his chair and wincing as he moved. “Sorry to bother you, Bert, but I was a bit dizzy. Much obliged to you, Mr. Mooney.”

“That’s all right, young feller, but listen to me, will you? You play pool somewhere else, see? I run a respectable place, and I don’t want no trouble-makers in here, see? I ain’t saying whose fault it was, mind, and I don’t care. And no hard feelings, see? But I’d be just as pleased if you kept away. And that goes for the other guy, too.”

“All right,” replied Chick wearily. “Come on, Bert.”

Outside Bert asked anxiously: “Sure you’d better not ride, Chick? It won’t take a minute to find a cab.”

“I’d rather walk. The air feels good. Gosh, that was a nasty thump he gave me!”

“Who did it? How did it happen? Never mind now, though. Better take my arm, old chap.”

Chick accepted the suggestion and for a few minutes they went slowly along the street, making their way with difficulty through the throng. Chick had set his cap on his head and it partly covered the blood-soaked bandage, and so his appearance attracted no attention. Presently, reaching West street and less crowded sidewalks, Chick began to talk.

“I suppose it’s after ten, isn’t it? Afraid I’m making a mess for you, Bert. Hope we don’t run into a faculty.”

“Only a minute or two after,” answered Bert. “Keep your head down and we’ll make it, I guess.”

“Afraid I can’t.” Chick attempted a chuckle. “Have to hold it up, Bert. If I don’t it throbs horribly. Have we got any arnica in the room?”

“I think so. If we haven’t I can find some easily enough. Is it much of a cut?”

“I don’t know, but it feels a yard long. A fellow bathed it in cold water and it hurt like the dickens. I got sort of faint and Mooney asked if he couldn’t send for some one to help me home and I told him to send for you. I guess he was afraid I’d want the ambulance and get the cops on the scene! How did they find you? Were you in the room? Any one hear about me?”

Bert explained as they went along State street between buildings gradually changing from shops to residences. Then: “You haven’t told me yet who hit you, Chick.”

“Les Devore. He got nasty because I wouldn’t play with him. I just went there to look on. I only had twenty cents and I told him so, but he said it didn’t matter, that I owed him a lot already and a couple of dollars more wouldn’t matter. I said he’d get his money all right, but I didn’t intend to owe him any more. Then he got talking for the other fellows to hear, razzing me about my dad being a banker and not having any money, and a lot of stuff like that. Making believe he was joking, but mad just the same. Well, I called him down finally and he came where I was sitting and put his hand against my chin and knocked my head back against a rack. Pretending he was just in fun, you know. It hurt quite a bit and I jumped up and hit him pretty hard. He went back against the table and I went after him. He was scared then and started to back around the other end, and I told him to keep his mouth shut and went back to sit down again. And just then some one yelled ‘Look out, kid!’ and I turned my head and got his cue right here. It didn’t hit me square, you see; sort of glanced off; but it put me out for the count, I guess. When I came around I was down there where you found me and some one was sopping water all over me.”

“What became of Devore?” asked Bert.

“I don’t know. I suppose he beat it. I’m going to find him to-morrow, though,” added Chick grimly.

“Not to-morrow,” said Bert. “You won’t be feeling very scrappy in the morning, Charles. Just you leave— Oh! He-hello, Mr. Cade!”

“I thought that was you, Hollins. And Burton, too, eh?”

“Good evening, sir,” muttered Chick.

They had reached the corner of State and Academy streets. Neither of them had given thought to the fact that the coach had his quarters in the old white house there, although if they had they would not have seriously considered the possibility of such an adventure. Mr. Cade was leaning over the gate, a pipe in his mouth, and since the nearest street light was well distant they hadn’t seen him until he had spoken. Now Chick tugged at Bert’s arm, but the coach spoke again.

“Been to the movies, Hollins?” he asked conversationally.

“No, sir, just—just down town. It—it’s a nice night, sir, isn’t it?”

“Splendid!” Mr. Cade sounded quite enthusiastic. “Remarkable weather for the time of year. A trifle too warm for football, of course, but then every one doesn’t play football, eh?” Chick was conscious that the coach was looking intently at him in the half darkness, and again he tugged imperatively at his companion’s arm.

“Yes, sir,” responded Bert vaguely, “it surely is. Well, we’ll be getting—”

But just then there was a scratching sound and a match flared. Mr. Cade held the flame to his pipe, as he did so leveling his gaze across it in the direction of Chick. Then the light went out and a puff of smoke floated over the gate.

“What happened to your head, Burton?” asked the coach quietly.

There was a moment of silence. Then Chick answered confusedly: “Nothing much, sir. I—well, I was in Mooney’s and there was a fellow in there got to swinging his cue around and—”

“And you got in the way of it, eh? Hard luck. Better come inside and let me look at it, I think.”

“Oh, thanks, sir, but it’s quite all right! I’m going to put some arnica on it when I get to the room. It—it isn’t anything, really!”

“Probably not, but it seems to be still bleeding, and if I were you I wouldn’t go up to the hall that way.” The gate swung inward, Mr. Cade stood aside, and, after a moment of hesitation, Chick entered, followed by Bert. The coach occupied two big rooms on the lower floor of the old house. There was a living-room with a comfortably faded carpet on the floor and furniture of the black walnut age. On a big, round table, littered with magazines and books and a dozen other objects, was a wide-shaded electric lamp in whose radius of mellow light stood a huge arm-chair, not of the walnut period. Beyond was a sleeping room, furnished with Spartan simplicity, while nearby, across a narrow rear hall, was a bathroom. To the latter Mr. Cade led the way.

“Now let’s have a look at it,” he said. Chick seated himself on a white stool under the beams of the light and the coach unwrapped the bandage. “Hm, you did get a nasty swat, didn’t you? That chap swung a mean cue! If it wasn’t so late I’d advise you to get Jake in to dress that and put a couple of stitches in it, but he’s probably fast asleep. What time is it, Hollins?”

“Twelve minutes past, sir,” replied Bert uneasily.

“Past—”

“Ten.”

“Later than I thought. Well, I guess I can strap that down with some plaster, Burton. I’ll give it a good washing first.” He swung open the door of a cabinet, selected a bottle from a shelf, ran some water in the bowl and went to work with absorbent cotton. “This may hurt a bit at first,” he warned.

“All right,” said Chick stoically. “It’s been hurting right along, sir.”

“There’ll be some swelling here in the morning, and some one may be curious. Possibly you had better say that you were calling on me this evening. No need to go into details, you know.”

“Folks might think you gave it to him, sir,” observed Bert in a weak attempt at humor.

“I guess not. I’ve felt rather murderous toward this chap at times this fall, Hollins, but until to-night I’ve managed to keep my hands off him.” The coach smiled as he spoke, but neither boy missed his meaning. “There you are, Burton. I’m not going to put a bandage on it. It may start to bleed again, but I don’t think it will. If it does, just sop it off with some cotton and try not to disturb the dressing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Chick arose and looked at himself in the glass. “Gee, I’m a sight! Look like a pirate or something, don’t I?”

“Well, you look as if you’d come off second-best,” chuckled the coach. He led the way back to the living room. “How does it feel now?” he asked.

“Better, sir, thank you.”

“Head ache?”

“Like the dickens.”

“Better sit down awhile then before you go up.”

“I guess we’d ought to beat it,” said Bert. “It’s long after ten, and we’re supposed to be inside at ten, sir.”

“After ten when you got here, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, a little.”

“I thought so. Well, you can say now that I kept you. Take this chair, Burton, and put your head back. Bring that chair over there up, Hollins. Now I’m going to talk a little to this chap. He’s feeling pretty rotten, and that’s an advantage to me.”

Chick grinned, but looked uneasily across at Bert. Mr. Cade busied himself with refilling and lighting his briar pipe as he went on. “You know, Burton, you haven’t been giving me a square deal this fall. I was looking to you to do big things. I thought you’d be a much better end than last year, but you’ve let me down badly. I haven’t complained, partly because I’ve been expecting you’d come around, partly because I didn’t want to start any unpleasantness. I saw quite early in the season that you were carrying a chip on your shoulder; why I don’t know; but I was careful not to disturb it. It wouldn’t have done any good to get you sore, old chap. Anyway, the way I doped it, you’d play the game when you got ready and not before. Of course I couldn’t wait for you after mid-season. You wouldn’t expect me to. And, as it has turned out, I was wise not to, for you haven’t come back yet. And now, of course, you’re not going to.”

The coach paused and the silence was deep. Bert waited for Chick to defend himself, to offer an excuse, an explanation, but Chick made no answer and the coach went on. He had spoken easily, without a suggestion of rancor, and he continued in such manner.

“You’re going up to college next fall and, unless you’ve changed your mind, to my college, Burton. And I guess you mean to play football. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Chick in a low voice.

“Well, don’t you think you’re counting a whole lot on my—my forbearance? Do you realize that, if I wanted to be nasty—no, not even that; but if I wanted to take my revenge—I could very easily make it impossible for you to ever make a team there? Ever think of that, Burton?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, never mind. It’s a fact, though. But I haven’t any desire to get back at you like that. After all, while you’ve made things a bit more difficult for me and have delayed the progress of the team, you’ve been harder on yourself than any one else, I guess. This is your last year here and you’re not showing pretty. It’s a poor piece of business for a First Team player to do so badly in his last season that he has to sit on the bench during the big game. And, frankly, Burton, as things stand now, that’s what you’ll be doing Saturday.”

“That’s for you to say, of course,” said Chick with some spirit, “but I don’t think I deserve that, sir. I—I may have been pretty poor sometimes, but I can still play better than Shelfer.”

“Can you? Perhaps you can. Yes, I’m sure you can. But the point is, Burton, that you don’t! And I’m bound to judge you by performance, my boy. Perhaps you think it’s a low-down trick to corner you when you’re feeling punk and say this sort of thing, but it’s just because you are feeling punk that I’m doing it.” Mr. Cade smiled. “You know, Burton, if you hadn’t had a crack on the head you’d never have let me say this; you’d have flung off in a temper long ago; and I’ve had it on my mind for some weeks and I consider that I’ve got it coming to me to get rid of it. Now, if it isn’t unreasonable to ask, Burton, what’s the answer to the whole business? Have you lost your interest in football, in the Team? Are you disgruntled because you didn’t make the captaincy? I certainly expected you to, and I’ll say frankly that I was disappointed that you didn’t. Or have you taken a personal dislike to me as a coach? There’s some explanation, and I’m curious to know what it is.”

After a moment Chick answered dispiritedly: “I don’t know, sir. I—maybe if my head didn’t ache— Anyway, it’s nothing to do with you, Mr. Cade. I suppose I did get grouchy about not getting the captaincy, but I don’t believe—” Chick’s voice trailed off tiredly.

“I think I can answer that better, sir,” said Bert. “He was peeved about the captaincy first, and then he got hold of something that interested him more than football, and, one way and another, he just sort of lost his—his hold. I’m sure he meant to carry on, Mr. Cade, but he let this other thing take up his time and his thought. That’s true, isn’t it, Chick?”

“I suppose so. Hang it, I didn’t really mean to mess things up so, Mr. Cade. Somehow I got started wrong this season. I—I’m might sorry. I didn’t meant to let you down, sir. Or make things harder for you. I—it’s like Bert says; I got interested in something else.”

“Well, I’m glad to know you didn’t mean it, Burton. I’m glad that this other interest explains it. Personally, I couldn’t find pool of more interest than football, but we’re not all alike.”

Perhaps he saw Chick’s look of surprise, for he went on in explanation. “You see, I’ve got a friend in town who works on the Alton paper. Perhaps you know him; Joe Manter. Joe drops in here quite frequently and he brings me the news. About a month or so ago he asked about you. He had been seeing you in Mooney’s billiard place pretty frequently, and sometimes quite late. Joe thought I ought to know that you weren’t keeping hours. I told him I already knew it, as I did; or, at least, as I suspected. You’ll remember that we met one evening on the street about the time you should have been in bed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Chick. “I’ve been playing pool a good deal at Mooney’s and I’ve been getting back to school pretty late; sometimes nearly eleven. I might as well tell the truth, sir.”

“Eleven!” gasped Bert. “How the dickens did you ever get by Peg?”

“I don’t know. Usually he was half asleep when I passed his door.”

“Well, of course, that sort of thing didn’t help you much to make a showing on the field,” commented the coach. “I considered getting after you once or twice, Burton, but I decided each time to keep my hands off. Now, one more thing. Joe Manter was in to see me this forenoon and he told me that an acquaintance of yours, a fellow named Devore, is getting some of his friends around town to put money up to bet on the game next week. Have you heard anything about that?”

“No, sir. That is, he did say something to me a week or more ago about betting on the game. Advised me to get hold of some money and bet it on Kenly. He said Kenly was certain to win this year and that he could get me odds when the time came. But that was all that was said. He hasn’t mentioned it to me lately.”

“Did you give him any money to bet?”

“No, sir. I didn’t have any. I guess I wouldn’t have bet it that way, anyhow!”

“Ever talk football with Devore?”

“Why, yes, sir, quite often.”

“Well, what was said? Was he interested in football?”

“Yes, I’d say he was. He talked about it a good deal when we were playing pool together.”

“Did he seem interested in our plays or our signals?”

“No, sir. I don’t remember that he ever showed much interest in things like plays and signals. We just talked about the game in general, and about last year’s game and all that.”

“I see. You’re certain you didn’t explain anything about this year’s plans or the plays we were using or our signal code?”

“No, sir, I don’t think— Well, maybe I did tell him something about some of the plays. He’d get to boosting Kenly and knocking our team, sir, and saying that we didn’t have any plays that would score. Maybe I did talk a bit too much. Did I do any harm, sir?”

“That’s what I don’t know, Burton. This Devore chap has a bad name, Joe tells me. He got fired from a job in the freight office about a year ago when he was suspected of stealing a small amount of money. Since then he’s been depending on his pool playing and on betting for a living. Joe thinks that Devore has got hold of something regarding our team, plays, signals, something or other, that he can hand on to Kenly. He’s trying to get hold of enough money to bet against Alton to make a killing, it seems. That’s Joe’s notion. But I don’t believe that Kenly would profit in any such way. I know the coach over there, and he’s a square chap. It may be that Devore has wormed something out of you, Burton, or thinks he has, and means to let us know next week, Saturday perhaps, that he has it and try to make us believe that he’s spilled it to Kenly. He probably figures that we’d have to change our plans at the last moment and that if we did we’d lose the game. Joe says he hears from Lakeville that several bets have already been laid over there on Kenly, which makes it look as if Devore was working with some one there. Of course it would help us considerably if you could recall just what you told Devore, Burton; what plays were discussed, for instance.”

“I wish I could,” said Chick hopelessly. “Honestly, though, I don’t see how he could make anything out of what I said, Mr. Cade. We never talked signals, and, anyway, it was before we’d changed to the new ones. Maybe I did explain two or three plays to him, but I don’t believe he understood them or could remember them, sir.”

Mr. Cade shook his head. “He could if he set out to, I’m afraid. Look here, it’s nearly eleven, and you chaps will have to hustle. When you get a good chance, Burton, I want you to sit down and go over your talks with Devore and try to recall about what was said by you regarding the team. It may be that Devore hasn’t a thing in the world and that the whole business is poppycock, but I’d like to be certain one way or another. Will you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Chick despondently. “Gosh, I seem to have made a complete mess of everything! I wish some one had hit me on the head a couple of months ago, and hit a lot harder! I—I’m beastly ashamed of myself, Mr. Cade, and it’s certainly mighty white of you to—to take it so decently!”

“That’s all right. Don’t trouble about it too much. Get to bed now, have a good sleep and see me to-morrow.”