Dr. Churchill and Professor Tines were on hand to conduct the investigation. The latter stated his case at some length, and reiterated his demand that football be abolished. In support of his contention he quoted statistics to show how dangerous the game was, how many had been killed at it, and how often innocent spectators, like himself, were sometimes hurt, though, he added, he would never willingly be a witness of such a brutal sport. "Well, young gentlemen, what have you to say for yourselves?" asked Dr. Churchill, and Tom thought he could detect a twinkle in the president's eye. Then Coach Lighton, who was a wise young man, began a defense. He told what a fine game football was, how it brought out all that was best in a lad, and how sorry the entire squad was that any indignity had been put upon Professor Tines. He was held in high esteem by all the students, Mr. Lighton said, which was true enough, though esteem and regard are very different. Finally the coach, without having hinted in the least who had kicked the ball that knocked the professor down, offered, on behalf of the team, to present a written apology, signed by every member of the squad. "I'm sure nothing can be more fair than that," declared Dr. Churchill. "I admit that I should be sorry to see football abolished here, Professor Tines." Professor Tines had gained his point, however, and was satisfied. He had made himself very important, and had, as he supposed, vindicated his dignity. The apology was then and there drawn up by the proctor, and signed by the students. "I must ask for one stipulation," said the still indignant instructor. "I must insist that, hereafter, when I, or any other member of the faculty approaches, all indiscriminate knocking or kicking of balls cease until we have passed on. In this way all danger will be avoided." "We agree to that," said Mr. Lighton quickly, and the incident was considered closed. But Professor Tines, if he had only known it, was the most disliked instructor in college from then on. He had been hated before, but now the venom was bitter against him. "We're well out of that," remarked Tom to Phil, as they went to their room, having gotten rid of their football togs. "I wonder what fun Pitchfork has in life, anyhow?" "Reading Latin and Greek, I guess. That reminds me, I must bone away a bit myself to-night. I guess Sid is in," he added, as he heard some one moving about in the room. They entered to find their chum standing on a chair, reaching up to one of the silken banners Tom had hung with such pride. "Here, you old anchorite! What are you doing?" cried Phil. "Why, I'm trying to make this room look decent," said Sid. "You've got it so cluttered up that I can't stand it! Isn't it enough to have pictures stuck all over?" "Here, you let that banner alone!" cried Tom, and he gave such a jerk to the chair on which Sid was standing that the objector to things artistic toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.