Snubby Turner was not the only member of Ridgley School who lost property during the days that preceded the game with Jefferson. His gold watch and the twelve dollars that had mysteriously disappeared from his chiffonier were the first to vanish, but they were quickly followed by other bits of jewelry and money—not only from the Ridgleyites in Gannett Hall but also from those in other dormitories.

Ned Stillson, over in Ames Hall, lost six dollars and a small gold-handled penknife that a maiden aunt had given him; Fred Harper reported the disappearance of a silver trophy of which he was inordinately proud,—a graceful little model of a sailing boat which he and his brother had won during a season of boat racing with their twenty-footer. The actual value of the trophy, aside from its sentimental value, was said to be thirty-six dollars.

In the case of Harper's loss there was an additional interest because of the fact that Fred nearly succeeded—unwittingly—in discovering the identity of the thief. His room was on the first floor of Gannett Hall, and he remembered that on the Wednesday night when the theft occurred he had left the window wide open at the time he went over to Lincoln Hall for supper. He had gone from the table early and on arriving at the dormitory had immediately entered his room. As he opened the door he saw a dark form outlined in the window and it occurred to him that perhaps one of his schoolmates was attempting to play a practical joke upon him.

"What's the idea?" he had said. "Why don't you come in the front door like a human being?"

He had expected an answer in harmony with his question, but to his surprise the person in the window had immediately scrambled out, jumped down five feet to the ground and had lost no time in running out of sight around the corner of the building. Fred Harper had peered out of the window, still thinking that he had been the victim of a prank, and had not noticed the loss of his silver sailing trophy until he had turned on the electric lights and had seen that the place where it stood on the mantelpiece was vacant. He had then dashed out of the dormitory in the hope of intercepting the fugitive as he crossed the campus, but no one was in sight except his schoolmates returning from Lincoln Hall. To these he reported his loss, and a dozen of the Ridgleyites made a hurried search of the campus; they investigated all the shaded corners and unlighted doorways but found nothing that in any way offered a clew to the identity of the mysterious thief.

Within a week a dozen other thefts had been reported, and no little talk went the rounds of the school. Poor Jerry, the grizzled old-timer, who for years had been general helper to Slocum, the head janitor, was an object of suspicion in the eyes of some of the newcomers at Ridgley. There was no doubt about it, Jerry did have a most fearsome cast of features. Mr. Stevens, the English master, once remarked that he looked like an "amiable murderer." It was an apt description. Jerry had an expansive smile, but it was bestowed only upon those Ridgleyites—masters and pupils—who, for some subtle reason, loomed high in his esteem. All others he glowered upon with an expression ferocious and uncompromising. It was said that Doctor Wells was head of the school six months before he gained the reward of the smile that Jerry bestowed on the elect. But Jerry's heart was in the right place, and the older members of Ridgley School laughed to scorn the suggestion that he had any connection with the thefts.

"I'd as soon suspect my own father as Jerry!" said Snubby Turner, "but that gives me an idea."

What the idea was he revealed to no one except Jerry himself. For some reason Jerry had taken a great liking to the genial Snubby, and when he received a call from that young man down in his basement room, his seamed features took on an expression that might have caused Mr. Stevens to add the adjectives happy and harmless to the "amiable murderer."

"I have an idea, Jerry," said Snubby. "You know some one's been getting away with a lot of valuable truck from the fellows' rooms. It would be an awfully clever stunt to catch him. Why don't you snoop around and find out who it is?"

"There's ijeers and ijeers," said Jerry. "I got my ijeers too. I ain't got no need to snoop around. I got eyes an' ears as are uncommon good, even though I been usin' the same ones for nigh on to seventy year. I got my own ijeers as to who's sneak-thieving this school and bime-by somebody's goin' to get ketched."

"What are your ideas?" asked Snubby. "Do you know who's doing it?"

But old Jerry had no further enlightenment for his friend, even when Snubby pressed him further. "I got eyes an' ears," said the old man, "an' I got my ijeers too."

Doctor Wells referred to the mystery indirectly one morning at chapel. "How foolish it is for any of us to believe that we can commit a wrong and escape the penalty merely because no one sees us," he said. "Every evil deed leaves its heaviest mark not on the victim of it but on the misguided person who performs it. Once in a while something happens at our school that proves anew that old, old truth."

There was absolute silence in the hall; every one knew to what the head was referring.

But other incidents of more stirring nature were under way at Ridgley School. As the impending struggle for football honors with Jefferson drew nearer, each day seemed to be more strongly charged with suspense and excitement until the very air that wafted itself among the maples and elms, which were now dropping their red and yellow leaves on the campus, seemed electric with possibilities both glorious and disastrous.

Since the game with Wilton, Teeny-bits had practiced regularly with the first squad and more than once had demonstrated that his ability to run with the ball was above the average. White, whose place he had taken in the Wilton game, recovered from his slightly sprained ankle, however, and resumed his old position as left half-back. Teeny-bits continued to be a substitute.

Tracey Campbell, who likewise had been promoted to the first team, seemed to have regained the attention of Coach Murray. On the Saturday that followed the tie game with Wilton, Ridgley journeyed to Springfield to play Prescott Academy. Ridgley won the game by the score of 17 to 0, but more than once had to fight to keep the light but active Prescott team from scoring. Both Teeny-bits and Campbell played through the whole fourth quarter and, to an impartial observer, might have seemed to display a nearly equal ability. Five minutes before the end of the game, however, Teeny-bits brought the spectators to their feet by catching a punt and dodging through half the Prescott team for a gain of fifty-five yards before the home quarter-back forced him over the side line. The spectacular thing about the run was that Teeny-bits somehow wriggled and squirmed out of the grasp of four Prescott players who successively had at least a fair opportunity to tackle him. The play did not result in a touchdown, for Prescott recovered the ball on an attempted forward pass and the game soon came to an end.

Coach Murray seemed to be pretty well satisfied with the playing of the Ridgley team. "What I liked best," he said on the way back, "was that you played an intelligent game—you took advantage of your opportunities—but let me add in a hurry that you will have to play better and harder football than you've played yet when you meet Jefferson."

On the same Saturday, Jefferson performed in a manner that brought no encouragement to Ridgley. With Norris, the mighty full-back, leading the team, Jefferson had "snowed under and buried", as one newspaper put it, the lighter Dale School eleven, which previously had won some little attention by its development of the open game, especially forward passing. Against Jefferson, Dale seemed helpless. She was stopped before she could get started; her players kept possession of the ball only for brief moments, and as soon as it came again into the hands of the bigger team another procession toward a touchdown started. The final score was 69-0, nine touchdowns and three drop kicks.

Of the nine touchdowns, Norris had made six, which was said to establish a record for school games in the state. Three goals were missed.

At Ridgley the name of Norris became a thing of dread; the leader of the Jefferson team had assumed the proportions of a Goliath.

"I'll bet Neil Durant can stop him," Fred Harper loyally declared to a group on the steps of Gannett Hall. But there was no great assurance in his voice and the answer that came back revealed the doubt that was in every one's mind.

"He can if any one can."

Teeny-bits was walking up from the locker building with Neil Durant after practice when the captain surprised him by saying:

"I used to know Norris; we used to go to a day school in Washington together."

"You did!" exclaimed Teeny-bits. "What was he like?"

"It was four or five years ago and we were young kids, but I remember that Norris was gritty as the dickens; he used to play quarter-back then; of course he's developed a lot since those days."

Somehow that little incident seemed to change Teeny-bits' state of mind toward Norris; he had been unconsciously thinking of him as scarcely a human being, rather as a super-athlete who was virtually invincible. He began to develop a great desire to play against him, and then suddenly something happened that seemed to make what had been a remote possibility almost a certainty.

Ten days before the big game, during a scrimmage in front of the scrub's goal line, White's weak ankle gave way sharply beneath him with the result that the bone was cracked and White was out of the game for the season. It was a heavy blow to the team; White had never been a spectacular player, but by hard work he had earned the reputation of being the "Old Reliable" of the team. Neil Durant and Ned Stillson were better at running with the ball and played perhaps more brilliantly, but White was steady and sure. His team-mates called him "a bear at secondary defense." He had an uncanny way of guessing where a play was coming through, and he made it his duty to plant himself in front of it,—and to stop it. If he had had more of leadership in his personality, he might have made as good a captain as Neil Durant made.

Coach Murray and Neil helped him off the field, plainly showing their disappointment and sympathy.

"Two of you fellows help White over to the locker building and 'phone for Doctor Peters to come down with his car," said the coach, addressing a group of substitutes at the side lines.

Teeny-bits jumped forward, but the coach said:

"Let some one else do that, Teeny-bits. I want you out on the field."

Teeny-bits walked back to the scrimmage line with the captain and the coach. A moment ago he had been a substitute; now suddenly he had become a regular. The other members of the team had a word of encouragement for him, but it was impossible for them to hide completely their belief that a disaster had come upon the eleven. Teeny-bits was a good substitute, they all acknowledged, but as a regular against such a team as Jefferson, well, he was too light in spite of his quickness and grit.

After a quarter of an hour of practice, Coach Murray sent Teeny-bits back to the side lines and called Tracey Campbell out. A few minutes later he recalled Teeny-bits and put the team through a long signal drill in which the new plays that he had been developing were practiced again and again. Those two maneuvers on the part of the coach indicated plainly enough that he had chosen Teeny-bits as regular left half-back in the place of White and that he had selected Tracey Campbell as first substitute.

At the end of practice Mr. Murray asked Neil and Teeny-bits to stay on the field for a few minutes.

"Three or four weeks ago, Teeny-bits," said the coach, "I looked upon you as an interesting possibility for the team next year. Now you've landed on the eleven, and I'm sure you can make good. You're quick and you've got a good eye for plays, but I want you to make up your mind that you are going to show us something that you never thought you had in you. I have an idea for a surprise play that I'm going to build around you. It may prove to be pretty important in the game with Jefferson. I want you to work on change of pace and shifting direction. Neil has both better than you have, and we'll depend on him and Ned to carry the ball a good part of the time; then if we can trust you to do the rest, things will look hopeful as far as our offense goes."

For half an hour Neil went through a practice with Teeny-bits that was intended to give the new member of the team greater flexibility as a runner with the ball.

"You see," said Coach Murray, "it's like this: if a fellow runs straight ahead with the ball he makes a clear target for the tackler—in other words he's an 'easy mark.' But if he's shifty and is able to fool the enemy by putting on a little extra steam at just the right moment or by slowing down in such a way that the tackler doesn't know what to expect, he has a tremendous advantage.

"Now suppose, for example, that the opposing end comes in swiftly toward you when you have started for all you're worth around his territory. If you have something in reserve which you can turn on just at the instant he's reaching for you and if you rely furthermore on a good straight arm to take care of him when he gets too close, the chances are that you'll go through to open ground. When I was in college I remember two fellows who came out for the team. One was the 'varsity sprinter and could cover a hundred yards in ten flat. The other was a fellow of about the same build who didn't have as much speed—I think the best he could do in the century dash was eleven or eleven and a half—yet that first man failed to make the team and the other fellow, who would have been left far behind in a sprint, was a regular on the eleven for three years and could always be relied upon to do his share in carrying the ball. He had a way of running straight at a tackler and then shifting direction in such a manner that you couldn't seem to bring him down. And then, of course, he was clever in using the straight arm and he always ran with high knee-action. When you tackled him it felt just as if you were tackling a man with a dozen legs, all of which were going up and down like the piston rod on a steam engine.

"Now you get down there in the middle of the field, Teeny-bits, and try to pass Neil and me. See what you can do to keep us guessing and when you use your straight arm remember to throw your hips; don't stand up stiff like a wooden Indian target."

Teeny-bits followed directions and again and again came down upon the coach and the captain, remembering their instructions to shift, to use his straight arm, to dodge, to change his pace and to exercise every stratagem that differentiates the skilful back-field runner from the novice. He felt that he was learning real football and took each bit of advice that was offered with an intense concentration.

"I wish you could have seen some movie pictures of one of the college games that I saw last year," said Coach Murray. "It showed better than any talk could show just what I mean by change of pace. The back that made the greatest gains of any man on the field had an uncanny way of eluding tacklers. The films showed how he did it. Again and again he slowed down just before the opposing tackle reached him—when they were running the film slowly it looked almost as if he stopped—and then, when the tackler leaped forward to bring him down, that shifty runner would slip around like a fox leaping away from a dog, and on he would go, leaving the tackler sprawling on the ground. Now try it again!"

Teeny-bits put his whole soul into this practice and at the end of the half-hour felt that he was making real headway.

"You're getting it great," said Neil Durant, as they walked back to the campus together. "The coach is wonderful on helping a fellow; and you can always be sure that what he says is exactly right. When he was in college he made the All-American team two years in succession."

The game at the end of the week—the next to the last of the season—was played in the midst of a steady drizzle on a muddy field. Dale School, which had fallen such an easy victim to Jefferson, visited Ridgley and went home defeated, 21-7. Coach Murray instructed the quarter-back to use only straight plays—to reveal none of the strategy that he had been drilling into the team during the past few weeks. Ridgley made three touchdowns in the first two quarters, one each by Neil Durant, Ned Stillson and Teeny-bits. At the beginning of the third quarter Mr. Murray sent in one substitute after another until finally big Tom Curwood and Teeny-bits were the only regulars left. Tracey Campbell then took Teeny-bits' place.

With an entire team of substitutes on the field Ridgley was at first able to hold her own against Dale, but presently the visiting team seemed to see its opportunity and by persistent rushing crossed the Ridgley goal line. Had it not been for the strong playing of Tracey Campbell, the Dale team might have scored at least another goal; Campbell was the main strength of the substitutes and again and again stopped the rushes of the Dale regulars. There was no question about Campbell's right to the place of first substitute back.

After the game, Coach Murray announced the probable line-up of the team for the Jefferson contest. There were no surprises. Neil Durant, Ned Stillson and Teeny-bits were to play in the back-field with Dean, the regular quarter-back.

That week-end Tracey Campbell went home to the "mansion" on the hillock. After the game with Dale he approached Neil Durant and invited the captain to be his guest. He did not say that he was acting under orders from his father. The elder Campbell was ambitious for his son to be prominent, as befitted the scion of a man who had made a million. He had written a letter to Tracey that week in which he had devoted two pages to advice in the matter of "getting ahead." One of his bits of instruction ran as follows:

Campbell put his invitation as casually as he could. "The old man wants me to bring some one home with me this week-end," he said. "Don't you want to come? Thought we could go to a show in Greensboro and to-morrow we'll tour around in the car."

Durant looked at Campbell keenly, but he showed neither surprise nor indifference. "It's mighty good of you to ask me," said the captain, "but I can't make it; I've got to study to-night, and to-morrow I think I'd better stay at the school. Much obliged, though!"

"Sorry. Some other time will be just as good."

Campbell spoke in an off-hand manner, but his words did not express the thoughts in his mind.

It was the faithful Bassett who finally went home with Campbell and accompanied him to the theater in Greensboro. At dinner Bassett put in a few words of praise for Tracey and phrased them in such a way that without telling any actual falsehoods he gave the impression that the game with Dale had been an important one and that Tracey had been chiefly responsible for saving Ridgley from defeat.

Tracey took the compliments gracefully and even denied that he had done quite as much as Bassett asserted.

"You mustn't be too modest, Tracey," declared Mrs. Campbell in her shrill voice. "Take the credit that's due you. I suppose this means you've won the letter that you talk so much about."

"You know about as much football as a porcupine, Ma!" exclaimed Tracey. "A fellow has to play in the Jefferson game to get his R."

"Well I'm glad you've proved that you've got the goods," declared Campbell, senior. "If you do as well in the big game I might be favorable toward giving you that racy runabout you've been nagging me to buy you."