Crestfallen and deeply chagrined, Sage attempted to watch the game from the side line. He gave no heed to the substitutes, who stared at him and muttered among themselves. His face, at first flushed, gradually lost its color until it became almost ghastly and haggard. He saw the exultant, confident Barville team, with the ball in its possession, tearing to pieces the defence of the locals in a manner that promised disaster for Oakdale.

“They’ll seek explanations in the next intermission,” he whispered to himself. “I can’t answer their questions.”

Turning suddenly, he left the field. Having passed outside, he made a dash for the gymnasium, in which he began ripping off his sweat-soaked football togs in a manner that was almost frantic. He did not pause for a shower, knowing that there would be no time for it if he wished to get away before his teammates appeared. Dully he seemed to hear the cheering of the crowd upon the field, taking notice in a benumbed way that the Barville cry was swelling stronger and more triumphant.

Leaving his playing togs as he had dropped them, he dashed bareheaded from the gymnasium, flinging himself into his coat as he ran. Round the corner he darted, scudded down Lake Street until the entrance to the academy yard was reached, ran panting across the yard and settled into a rapid walk when his feet were presently on the path that led across lots between Middle and High Streets.

He had made his escape none too soon, for barely was he out of sight when the third quarter ended and the Oakdale players came hurrying toward the gymnasium. They were a soiled, battered, weary-looking band, and more than one seemed to totter in his stride. In the gym they flung themselves down upon benches and blankets, some even sprawling upon the floor.

“Cripes!” groaned Sile Crane. “Them fellers sartainly made us fight. We barely held ’em.”

“If they’d had another minute they’d have scored,” sighed Harry Hopper. “They’re better trained than we are. They’re like iron. That’s what a coach does for a team.”

Two chaps were rubbing Chipper Cooper’s left ankle, which he had wrenched in a scrimmage. The smell of witch hazel and arnica filled the room.

“Look at the confounded thing,” snapped Chipper, his face contorted by grimaces of pain. “You can almost see it swell. I’ll be as lively as a toad on that bum peg.”

“If Sage hadn’t messed things up!” muttered Rodney Grant, as if speaking to himself. “What was the matter with him, anyhow?”

“Where is Sage?” asked Stone, looking around. “I don’t believe he came in from the field. Here, Shea, go bring Sage.”

Piper touched Ben on the arm.

“Don’t bother to send for him, captain,” he advised.

“Why not?”

“You won’t find him out there. He’s gone.”

“Gone—where? Why——”

“I don’t know where,” said Sleuth; “but he’s gone. Here are his field clothes just as he dropped them. He didn’t even stop to put them away.”

Astonishment was plainly revealed in Stone’s face.

“I don’t understand it,” he finally said in a low tone. “I can’t see why Fred should desert us like this. What will we do if——” He checked himself abruptly.

“He’s run away! He’s quit!” cried Nelson. “What do you know about that, fellows?”

Hooker rose to the defence of his chum. “I’m dead sure Fred is sick,” he said. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a football enthusiast he is, and you never before saw him put up such a numb, bungling game.”

“At least,” said Stone, “if he had to quit, he might have let me know.”

The inexplicable action of Sage seemed to cast a heavier shadow upon the team. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could not help feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the game in a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although they fought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined, undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, the Barvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tying goal.

Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a time it seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute of play, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, the visitors made a field goal.

As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from the Oakdale spectators.

“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys are beaten.”

He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.

It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showers and rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they were disposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. Vainly Hooker tried to defend his friend.

“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excuse for that.”

“Nary bit,” agreed Crane. “He done us a dirty turn to-day, and it’ll take a whole lot of explainin’ to put him right with the bunch.”

Roy was the first to leave the gymnasium, and he started almost at a run for Sage’s home.

“I don’t understand it myself,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “I can’t imagine what threw Fred into such a pitiful condition. I hope he can explain.”

As he came within view of Fred’s home he discovered his chum and Mr. Sage standing near the open stable door, apparently engaged in conversation. At the same moment Fred seemed to espy Roy, and immediately, with a quick word to his father, he darted into the stable and disappeared.

Mr. Sage walked out to meet Hooker. There was a strange expression on the man’s face, and Roy fancied that he seemed somewhat nervous and distraught.

“I’d like to see Fred a minute,” said Hooker.

“I’m sorry,” was the answer, “but he’s not feeling well. He can’t see you.”

His perplexity greatly augmented, Roy stared at the man.

“Is he ill?”

Andrew Sage seemed to hesitate. Lifting a hand to his lips, he coughed behind it.

“Well, not—er—not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling well enough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”

This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” he said, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill in bed—and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you please tell him that Barville won the game?”

Turning, he walked slowly away, his brow knitted with perplexity.

“I can’t understand it,” he told himself once more. “It’s too much for me. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that he doesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the information that Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”