“Mr. Gibson wanted at the telephone!” announced The Duke loudly. “Is Mr. Gibson here?” Without appearing to look in his direction The Duke saw the Broadwood fellow start in his seat, look indecisively down and settle back again. “Mr. Gibson wanted at the ’phone!” he continued, passing along in front of the stand. “Mr. Gibson wanted at the ’phone immediately. Is Mr. Gibson here?” The fellows took up the cry. “Is Mr. Gibson here? O you Mr. Gibson! Show yourself, Gib! There he goes! Here he is! Who wants Gibson? I don’t! O you Mr. Gibson!” At the first aisle a tall, broad-shouldered youth in a derby hat was picking his way down as unostentatiously as possible. The Duke turned back and met him as he reached the ground. “Is your name Gibson?” he asked. The other nodded. “You’re wanted at the ’phone. I’ll show you where it is.” Followed by the youth in the derby, The Duke pushed his way through the crowd about the entrance. Back of him a whistle shrilled and the teams lined up once more. “Do you know who wants me?” asked Gibson as they started up the path. “I couldn’t say,” replied The Duke. “Nice day for the game, isn’t it? You’re a Forest Hill fellow, aren’t you?” “Hm,” responded the other noncommittally. “Where is this telephone?” “Oxford,” replied The Duke, leading the way around the front of the gymnasium and thereby lengthening the journey. “It’s right around the corner here.” A burst of cheering came from the field below them and Gibson looked regretfully over his shoulder. “Those are your fellows cheering,” said The Duke. “I shouldn’t wonder if you beat us to-day. How many of you came along?” “Er――quite a number; forty or fifty, I guess. This the building?” “Next,” said The Duke, conducting the visitor past Merle. “Here we are.” They went up the steps of Oxford and The Duke led the way down the dim and silent corridor to the telephone booth. Politely he opened the door and, Mr. Gibson once inside, politely and very carefully he closed it. The click of the lock was simultaneous with the lifting of the receiver from the hook. “Hello! Hello! This is Mr. Gibson.... What say?... Gibson!...” [Illustration: “‘Hello! Hello! This is Mr. Gibson.... What say?’”] The Duke, stealing softly down the corridor, heard no more. At the doorway he cast a fleeting glance back at the booth. Then he slipped from sight. Halfway back to the field he paused and did an erratic breakdown, with much snapping of fingers and many loud chuckles. Then, pulling his features back into their former innocence of expression, he went on. He reached the gridiron at an exciting moment and had seated himself between Gerald and Harry before his fellow-conspirators realized his return. Then, “All right?” whispered Gerald.