“Honest, Clyde? You mean that you didn’t write it? Or have a hand in it?” “I don’t know what _it_ is!” exclaimed the other, in an exasperated voice. “I haven’t written any letter to any coach――hang it!” “Gosh!” said Barry, softly. “Gosh, that’s great! I thought of course――” “What letter is it?” demanded Clyde, impatiently. Barry told him all the circumstances, while Clyde expressed bewilderment and resentment, by various sounds that were not quite words. And when Barry had explained, Clyde had many questions to ask, and got so excited and angry that the other had to caution him against being overheard. “Whoever pulled that stunt ought to get kicked out of school!” declared Clyde, hotly. “And――and you thought it was me!” “I didn’t want to,” said Barry, “but I couldn’t help it. You said that night in your room that you’d see that I didn’t play against Hoskins――” “But――great Scott!――I was only talking, you idiot! I was mad, all right, that time, I’ll own, but――but――say, you make me tired! You ought to know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like that, Barry!” “I’m sorry,” said the other. “But you did say it, and just as if you meant it; and then there was that typewriter of yours that printed the B’s above the line.” “Yes, that’s so,” Clyde admitted, somewhat mollified. “And that’s funny, too. Look here, you don’t suppose Hal――” “I thought of him,” replied Barry “but he wouldn’t have any reason, would he?” “He might have,” murmured Clyde, thoughtfully. “But――hang it, Barry!――there may be other machines that print the B’s crazy.” “Of course, there must be. You didn’t write the letter, and I don’t believe Hal Stearns did, so――” “Wait a bit! When was that thing written?” “Mr. Prince received it Tuesday morning. There wasn’t any date on it.” “Tuesday morning? Then it must have been written on Monday at the latest, eh? Well,” and Clyde’s voice arose triumphantly, “I didn’t get that machine until Tuesday noon! You can ask Whitwell!” “Well,” said Barry, after a moment’s consideration of the announcement, “that certainly lets Hal out, doesn’t it? But――shucks! I don’t care now who did it! Just as long as you didn’t, what’s it matter?” “It matters a lot,” grumbled Clyde. “What sort of bozos do you suppose Mr. Prince thinks we are, over here? I hope the Major finds out who did that, and gives him thunder! I’d like to take a wallop at him myself.” Presently, having pursued this thought sufficiently, he went on: