Things went badly for Queen's in the second half of the game. Hillard was as brilliant and erratic as ever, and made several dashing runs around the ends, but he inevitably slipped up somewhere, and his unfortunate fumbling lost his team many more yards than he gained for it. Chip played like a demon, trying to justify himself in his own mind for the trick he had played Jimmy, the team and the school. He was in every interference and worked every instant to put Queen's in a position to score, but it was all to no avail. Chip was so intent on his work with the back field that he failed to hold the team together, and as the game went on the Queen's presented a less and less organized effort. Barrows slammed into them for big gains when the Academy had the ball, and at last solved all of the Queen's attacks so completely that the old school eleven was making no headway.

Finally, after an exchange of punts, Boston Wheeler, being obliged to kick against the wind, Barrows took up the march to Queen's goal from the latter's 35-yard line. Queen's line was tired physically from the pounding, and weak, for there was not enough stamina now to resist the bigger Academy fellows, who seemed to be growing stronger every minute. There was no Jimmy Turner now to drive his sturdy body fearlessly against the oncoming Barrowites.

"It's all over now," said the Wee One, "the team has lost what little fighting spirit it had at first. They will be buried out of sight with not even a leg to mark the graveyard."

Frank admitted that there was no help for it.

Horton walked up and down the sideline, shaking his head, unable to stop what was coming.

Soon the Barrows' catapult was rammed over the line for a touchdown. The angle was too difficult for the goal when the ball had been brought out, and Morton, who did the kicking, failed. From that point on, the game was a rout. Harding, having none of the qualities for leadership about him, could not hold his team together. He was useless in the emergency which was now upon the Queen's eleven. Chip tried to help by banging his men on the back, and crying desperately to "hold them, hold them, show your sand." But if they ever had any sand it had been scattered earlier in the game.

And how about the Freshman halfback who had been so unkindly thrown out of the game, and who sat watching this second half going against the Queen's School eleven? He was only a Freshman, but black despair was in his heart. He was only a Freshman, but he loved the old place, and he wanted to have the privilege of helping to put the school flag uppermost in all the contests in which she had a part. And to be so meanly tricked for no fault of his, and pitched off the field before the whole school was almost more than he could stand.

When the thing happened he was perfectly well aware how Chip had served him, and he sprang to his feet to settle the matter then and there with his fists, but after a tense moment his senses came back to him. Perhaps others had seen what had actually happened, and he would not have to bear the shame. But no one seemed to have noticed it. The coach evidently had not happened to see the incident, lynx-eyed though he was.

"He may have been looking aside at that moment," thought Jimmy, "and I mustn't blame him. I just looked like a dummy when he turned and saw the ball rolling around on the ground, and a hole big enough to drive an ox-cart through waiting for me. But I'll settle up with Dixon some day, and I hope it isn't far off." He ground the words out between his clinched teeth, and his look boded no good for Chip Dixon when the day of settlement should arrive.

What need is there to go into detail of that disastrous afternoon? Three times more did the jubilant Barrowites plough through Harding's demoralized eleven, and when the final whistle blew, the Queen's crowd saw the awful record on the board of 23 to nothing. It was the worst defeat that had ever come to Queen's at the hands of any but Warwick. It was a sting never to be forgotten, and only to be wiped out with reverse figures twice the size.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Gleason to Frank as the crowd slowly filed down off the stand, and the tired teams drew each into a knot and gave the yell for the opponents. "If it hadn't been for that rotten fumble of young Turner I think the Wheel-barrows wouldn't have gone home so full."

"It wasn't a fumble, Mr. Gleason," said the Wee One, "and if you thought it was you better run right along to the oculist and have him put his prettiest pair of specs on you!"

"Oh! p'raps it was a clever little piece of legerdemain then," grunted Gleason, but neither Frank nor the Wee One heard him. They were hotfooting it after Jimmy, who was tailing after the squad with his eyes on the ground and gloom in his heart.

Frank ran up behind him and slipped his arm around his shoulder. "We saw it, Jimmy," he said. "I didn't think he dare carry a grudge against you so far. But it lost him the game."

"I don't know," returned Jimmy. "They were too heavy for us." But there was a lightening of his spirits when he felt that the play was not entirely misunderstood. "Dixon made it hard for me to get the ball several times, but he always did it so cleverly that no one could see him. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it and been the victim of it as well. He got me out and his room-mate in."

"He got you out sure enough," said Frank. "I suspected he would swing something against you, and he was determined to get his room-mate in at any cost."

"Yes, and it cost him the game," said Patterson. "That's what you get for playing favorites. I'll bet the scrub could have put up a better argument against the Academy than the First eleven, the way it played to-day. Wonder what the coach will say to them?"

But the coach had little to say.

"Boys," he said, simply and without any venom in his words, "there's something wrong with you, and we'll try to find it next week. The way you played to-day, you haven't the ghost of a show to win your big game two weeks from now. You are a sore disappointment. I've done the best I could to show you how, but I can't go out there on the field and play your game for you."

It was quite evident from Jimmy's actions that he wanted to be let alone, so Frank and the Wee One slipped out of the gymnasium and headed for the school yard.

"Frank, what are we going to do about it? I don't want Queen's to lose to those farmers up the river, or I'd go to Horton with what I know and make a clean breast of it. That would certainly get Dixon fired from the team, but we'd be no better off, for in spite of what you may say about Chip, he's a peach of a quarter."

"Let's go to Dixon and tell him we know that Jimmy's failure to get the ball was due to him, and not to a stupid fumble, as it seems to have appeared to everyone else."

"We'll have our trouble for our pains I think, and I wouldn't be surprised if he fired us both out of his room, and shied a few boots, with feet in them, after us. Chip's got a bad temper, and he's not in a good humor just now."

"Let's try Harding. Even if he is a dummy, I don't think he'd stand for Dixon making a goat out of him and the rest of his team simply because he wants his room-mate and a brother Gamma to play."

"No use, Frank. Harding hasn't spunk enough. He's a pretty fair end, but he has no more business to be captain than I have to challenge for the heavyweight championship of the world. I'm afraid we can't do anything without busting up this whole eleven."

"What do you suppose the Doctor would do if it was proven to him that Chip threw the game away for a favorite?" asked Frank.

"Well, if I know anything about Old Glass-eye, I'd say he'd put a stop to the meteoric career of this football eleven of ours. And that's what I don't want to see. If we can only force Chip to drop his grudge against Turner, and get down to business, we might still have a fighting chance, but it's hopeless I'm afraid. The whole of Gamma Tau is behind him. And the worst of it is he's knocked poor Jimmy, and has done it so cleverly that even Horton thinks Jimmy's unreliable in a tight pinch, and if there's anything Horton won't forgive a man for, it is to fail when he is most needed. With no one strong enough to push his case and the captain and Dixon dead against him, there's not much more chance for Turner now."

Frank had been thinking hard, and now he stopped dead in his tracks.

"By Jove!" he said, "I think I know a way to force Chip Dixon to do as we want to have him. If he doesn't do it, there's a fair chance of his ending his career here. I hate to be mean, but when the other fellow is mean and will not let up, we've got to meet him with his own weapons."

"Well, fire away, young Sleuth; do you hold a deadly secret over his head? Out with it if you do."

Frank quickly gave the Wee One a description of the hazing, which was interrupted very frequently by Patterson with snorts of indignation.

"I'll bet Dixon was mixed up in that affair. If we only knew, we'd fix him."

"But supposing we did know?"

"We'd have him where the wool was short and the skin tender."

"Well, that's just it, for when I got back to the room that night Gleason had picked up a wristlet that Chip wore the first day I came here. I haven't seen a wristlet on him since. I looked particularly to-day, and he had none on."

"Any marks on the wristlet you found?" inquired the Wee One, eagerly, beginning to catch the drift of Frank's plan.

"Yes, 'C. D.' inked plainly on the inside of one of the small straps, and besides that I made a hunt in the grass near the boat-house the next morning, trying to trace out the way we went to the river, and accidentally came across the strap with which they tied my hands, and on that was printed Chip's full name. It looks like one of the straps which go around an extension grip. Here it is, and here's the leather wristlet."

"Jumping geewhillikins! Come to my arms, you Sherlock Holmes. We have Chip Dixon where we want him. This seems to be certain proof, and if we gave the story to Glass-eye, Chip wouldn't last long enough to pack his suit case. The old man is dead down on hazers since the accident we had here two years ago. He gives every new class a red-hot talk about it.

"To-night you and I will make a call on Mr. Dixon," added the Wee One, who had now thoroughly espoused the Freshman's cause, not only for that individual's sake, but for the sake of justice to the school. "I'll come over to-night after supper, and we will have a little session with our shifty quarterback, which, I think, will make him so gentle that he'll eat off our hand. So long, see you about half-past seven," and the Wee One tore off, but not before Frank had time to shout: "This is all between ourselves."

"Sure," returned the Wee One, "ourselves and Mr. Christopher."