The delighted Westcott lads poured after their team to the dressing rooms in a turbulent stream. The forward ones thronged the limited space within, interfering with the progress of the players toward cleanness and respectability, and wearying them with fierce clutches of the hand and much repetition of exclamations and idle questions. Dunn served his companions a good turn—unintentionally, to be sure—by standing near the door and delivering to a densely packed circle a disquisition on the game, which included not merely the true explanation of the weakness of the Newbury team and the faults of their playing, but a candid setting forth of the errors on the Westcott side. According to Dunn, the score might have been doubled if Westcott’s hadn’t thrown the ball away so much by punting, and had gone systematically to work at the outset to use up Thorne, the Newbury tackle who did half the defensive work of his team.

“Didn’t McDowell put up a great game,—and Hardie?” exclaimed some inconsiderate enthusiast in the circle.

“Yes, they both did pretty well on the whole,” answered Dunn. “It was a cinch for Hardie. He had nothing against him.”

Mike and Dickie Sumner came edging by.

“If Jason had only been there, you’d have seen something doing,” said Mike, in a low tone to his companion. They both laughed aloud. Dunn turned at the sound and caught a glimpse of the roguish faces, and felt, though he could not hear, the insult of their words.

“Get out of here, you kids!” he called angrily. “You’ve no business here at all.”

“We’re going, Jason, as fast as we can,” returned Dick, feeling safe in the crowd. “You played a corking game, Jason!” added Mike.

The two went their way to the quarters of the other team to see how the Newburyites were taking it, leaving Dunn to wax violent over the necessity of having these “little fresh mutts” hanging round all the time, and the foolish encouragement they received from older fellows who ought to know better. Some of these fellows who ought to know better were at the other end of the room preparing for the shower. Jack Sumner held Talbot’s foot in his lap—the knee was stiffening again—and worked at the knot in a shoe-lace, exclaiming with delight over the playing of the team and dwelling with especial enthusiasm on McDowell’s performance.

“It was just perfect,” he said, relaxing his efforts on the knot to look into the faces of his hearers. “Those tackles in the second half when Thorne got the on-side kicks and came down on him, just saved touch-downs. He’s the greatest find of the year!”

“Oh, cut it!” exploded Talbot, punning without intent. He meant that Jack should drop that talk about McDowell. It was honest, without doubt, and generous, but it hurt Pete none the less, for he understood well Sumner’s disappointment.

“I haven’t any knife,” said Sumner. “Here, Steve, give us a knife!”

And Wilmot, interrupting his discourse on how he had saved the game by suggesting that they learn the signals during play, dug down into his trousers pocket and produced a battered thing with a single broken blade, which he kept on purpose to lend.

“Be sure you give it back to me,” he said. “It’s the only lender I’ve got.”

Meantime in the Newbury quarters, outside of which stood Mike and Dickie with wide-open eyes and most receptive ears, were to be heard laments and reproaches and an indignant clamor of foul play. Westcott’s knew the Newbury signals, there was no doubt about it.

“Why, that Hardie would move right up on the signal for outside-tackle play, and go right back again when it was called off. He knew the signal all right.” Skillen’s assurance had personal interest behind it. He wanted it understood that he had been laboring under a handicap.

“And on the centre plays in the second half,” said Firman, “Ford came right up into the line, and Talbot got in behind him. Of course I couldn’t make a hole.”

“That miserable Callahan gave them away,” declared Newbold, the captain. “You wouldn’t suppose Westcott’s would play such a dirty trick, would you?”

“These high flyers are always the worst grafters,” said Skillen. “They’ll cheat fast enough when they have to.”

“But we changed some of the signals,” remarked Thorne, “and that outside-tackle signal that they knew was one of the new ones.”

“That was only one,” said Newbold. “They knew at least half a dozen. Callahan sold us, that’s the fact. We’ve got proof. Fritz Schaefer saw him at the Westcott grounds last Wednesday, talking with one of their men. It’s a steal. We’ll protest the game.”

“I don’t believe they did it,” said Thorne. “I know one or two of their fellows, and they aren’t that kind. Williams (the quarter-back) always gives the same numbers, anyway. No one who kept his ears open could help hearing some of them.”

“That’s right, stand up for ’em!” said Hexam, bitterly. “Go back on your own school and try to get the Westcott fellows’ favor! They may let you into one of their societies when you get to college.”

“I don’t feel as if I’d gone back on my own school much to-day,” returned Thorne, quietly. “It’s bad enough to be beaten without playing the baby.”

“It’s a steal!” Newbold reiterated. “They got our signals and won unfairly. Smith says so.”

Smith was saying so at that very moment, in strongly rhetorical language, to an eager crowd outside the quarters, including in its front rank a stout man with a diamond pin, and—on the outskirts—Mike McKay and Dickie Sumner. The high-minded president was sorely pained—not at the defeat of his school—oh, no! Nor by the anti-climax of his first gala day—certainly not! Nor by his loss of prestige with Alderman Skillen. He was pained, but only impersonally and officially, as the offended guardian of the moral majesty of the league.

“They was too smart for you, that’s about the size of it,” Mr. Skillen was saying. “If the’ isn’t any rule against buying up a coach, why, they’ve got you pinched.”

“No rule is needed,” answered President John, pompously. “The league stands for the highest ideals in sport. It won’t countenance low tricks or dishonorable methods of winning or anything at all in the games that isn’t absolutely fair and right.”

“It wasn’t fair and right to kick Jerry off the field, that’s a sure thing,” declared the alderman. “The other fellow got into him first with his shoulder. I saw him do it time and again.” An irrepressible titter ran round the circle at this ingenuous view of football etiquette.

“We have to leave that to the officials,” President John hastened to say. “I think they roasted us several times, but we can’t help that. The other matter is one for the league itself to handle. It’s one of the most disgraceful performances in the annals of football!”

The bystanders listened greedily. Mr. Skillen gave a sharp nod of approval. “That’s the way to put it—make it good and strong and stick to it. Your friends can give us a nice little story about it in the papers to-morrow. But what’ll come of it all, that’s what I want to know? Will there be anything doin’?”

“We shall protest the game before the committee and demand that it be played again or declared forfeited.”

“Forfeit!” decided Mr. Skillen, promptly. “Forfeit’s the thing. It wouldn’t help any to play it again. They’ve got too many trumps.”

“Forfeited, then,” agreed Mr. Smith. “I’ll see Newbold about it at once.”

President John disappeared through the door leading to the Newbury quarters, whither the curious young Westcott lads had not the audacity to follow. They hung about, however, hoping that he might reappear, and talked over the startling news in indignant whispers. They didn’t understand it all, but it was clear that their admired heroes were charged with buying signals from a Newbury coach and winning the game through the knowledge thus acquired.

“It’s all rot,” decided Mike. “Somebody’s been kidding ’em. They’d believe any old lie, if they thought they could make anything by it.”

“Why, my brother Jack would no more do such a thing than he would pick pockets!” said Dickie. “He’s awfully particular about those things, and Pete is just the same.”

“They’re all the same, except Jason,”—there was nothing evil Mike wouldn’t believe about Jason,—“and Jason doesn’t count any more.”

The president came forth, mopping his face with his handkerchief and setting his hat firmly on his head. From the window of the dressing room he had seen Mr. Westcott, lingering with three of his old boys near the entrance to the grounds. Toward this group he set a straight course, while the two lads fell in unnoticed behind him.

“Mr. Westcott!” called the high official, sharply, as he drew near. The college boys lifted their hats and went their way. Mr. Westcott turned with a pleasant look on his face, and in his heart a kindly feeling for all the world, including this man Smith. The afternoon had brought him a full measure of happiness; first the splendid playing of his team, then a shower of hearty greetings from old boys—and tokens of regard from former pupils, be it understood, are the sweetest morsels an honest schoolmaster can roll beneath his tongue.

“Mr. Westcott!” came in a loud, contentious voice from beneath the brown derby. “We shall protest that game,—I mean the captain of the Newbury team has protested it.”

Mr. Westcott’s smile vanished in a flash, and an expression of bewilderment overspread his face. “Protested!” he repeated. “I do not understand. On what ground, pray?”

“Your team, it appears, bought or at least got the signals which Newbury was to use from a discharged coach, and so were able to anticipate and block the Newbury plays.”

“It appears from what?” asked the schoolmaster, coldly.

President John hesitated. “Well, from the game itself and—from other facts.”

“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Westcott, speaking with head thrown back, in tones resonant with indignation, “you probably do not realize the insulting character of the charge which you are bringing. If I understand you to mean that the Westcott management plotted to win the game with stolen signals, I assure you the charge is both false and slanderous. There is a bad mistake somewhere. I know my boys, as you do not; they are incapable of such an act.”

“I didn’t want to believe it myself, sir,” said President John, for the instant abashed, “but the facts are such—” He stopped and tried to think what the facts really were.

“The facts?” persisted Mr. Westcott.

“They will be stated fully at the meeting of the committee which I shall call,” answered John, recovering himself. “I merely desired to give you notice that I had received the protest.”

He turned and bent his steps toward his allies at the dressing rooms, driving two urchins in flight before him. Long before his pompous strut brought him to the Newbury end of the locker building, the two young scouts had burst in among the Westcott players with a whoop and a yell, had gathered about them in a trice an elbowing crush of the dressed and half-dressed, and with mutual support and interruption, were devoting themselves to the delectable task of relating the news. The audience listened wild-eyed, questioned, and exploded in exclamations. When the fire of questions slackened and the exclamations began to pop, Dunn seized his suit-case and silently stole away. This crowd was no place for him.