“I thought you had lots of candidates,” said Charles Merriwell, a good-looking, dark-haired fellow of nineteen. “Anyhow, you’re going to win, aren’t you?” “Oh, I suppose we’ll win all right enough, but if we do it will be because Broadwood’s weak this year. Our team doesn’t begin to compare with last season’s.” “That’s what they all say,” scoffed big Girard, the center. “You hear that every year. Nothing ever compares with what we had last year. It’s rot!” “Not always,” replied Bert Simms. “Our team isn’t as good as last year’s, and you know it, Pete.” “What’s the matter with it?” “Too light, for one thing. Broadwood’s got the heaviest team she ever put on the field. Bet you she’ll outweigh us four pounds to a man.” “Oh, piffle! Look at O’Brien, their center; he’s a mite!” “Well, he’s the only mite they’ve got, Pete. As for the back-field, they’re tons heavier than we are.” “Then we’ll make up for it by getting the jump on ’em,” said Girard. “Weight isn’t everything.” “Nice of _you_ to say so,” murmured Simms, causing chuckles of amusement from the others. Girard reached out with a big foot and, hooking it around a leg of Simms’ chair, brought that youth to the floor. “Bert’s right, though,” declared Merriwell, when order had been restored, “and we’ll find when Payson shows his new plays that we’re in for a kicking game, with most of our gains on wide runs. You’ll be busy that day, Burtis.” At that moment there was a rap at the door and The Duke entered, hands in pockets, whistling, his eyes roaming the ceiling, elaborately careless. He had an old felt hat on the back of his head, his coat was tightly buttoned and the collar was turned up, and a false mustache, fiercely red, hovered uncertainly under his nose. A burst of laughter greeted him. Once inside the room, however, his demeanor changed. Turning swiftly, he threw himself against the door and, as it crashed shut, quickly turned the key and leaned there breathing heavily, his eyes darting about with a haunted and terrified glare. “What is it?” asked Merriwell. “Sherlock Holmes?” “Old Sleuth,” suggested Gerald. “How did you cut your lip, Duke?” Without replying The Duke leaned down and pressed an ear against the keyhole. Then, apparently satisfied, he unlocked the door and dramatically removed hat and mustache. “Aha!” he exclaimed hoarsely; “foiled again!” “Bet you he will be along inside five minutes,” laughed Gerald. “Sit on the bed, Duke, and try to look like a pillow. Maybe he won’t recognize you.” The Duke followed the first part of the suggestion, but refused to disguise himself as a pillow, even when Simms suggested that that shouldn’t be a difficult stunt for anyone as feather-brained as The Duke. “Don’t trifle with me,” hissed The Duke. “I’m a der-esperate man!” “Where’d you get the red mustache?” asked Girard. “Let’s see it.”