“I don’t see how Collins will know it was you,” said Harry hopefully. The Duke viewed him with a pitying eye. “Merely because I paraded up and down in front of the grand stand yelling my little heart out for Mr. Gibson, Harry. Collins may be dense, but I think he will be able to follow that clue; what?” “He will get you,” acknowledged Gerald sadly. “The question is――――” “The question is what will I get! Well, never mind. What’s done is did. And here comes the team again and Mr. Gibson is not in sight. What I should have done after getting him in there was cut the line!” He looked longingly up the hill. “Maybe it isn’t too late yet,” he added musingly. “Then you _would_ get it!” said Gerald. “I guess you’ve done enough, Duke.” “Sure; too much is plenty! Anyway, if Mr. Gibson doesn’t get back before the game’s over I’ll be satisfied.” The Yardley team came piling through the entrance, Merriwell in the lead, Coach Payson and Davis following. As he passed Davis lifted his eyebrows questioningly and The Duke returned a reassuring shake of the head. Davis whispered to the coach and the latter smiled demurely as he passed on to the field. “You fellows,” said The Duke presently, “had better get away from here. If they see you sticking around with me they’re bound to think you had a hand in it.” “So we did,” replied Gerald. “So you didn’t! What did you do, I’d like to know. Move on now, move on! Don’t block the sidewalk!” “Oh, who cares?” asked Harry. “It’s only a joke, anyway. They can’t do anything to any of us.” “Besides, Gibson won’t make a fuss,” said Gerald. “He won’t want to confess that he came over to spy on the team.” “Well, suit yourselves,” replied The Duke with a shrug of his shoulders. “If you must have trouble, have it. They’re kicking off.”