“I heard,” said Barry, “that the Major always read what the newspaper correspondents sent out.” “Well, that’s what I thought. If he read that stuff of Short’s, he must have been in a hurry. Unless――” Clyde hesitated an instant―― “unless he wants Hoskins to know! By Jove, Barry! he might! The Major’s awfully foxy.” Barry considered that theory while he followed Clyde upstairs in Dawson, but he failed to see any advantage to be gained by the publicity. Clyde turned on the lights and produced the city paper of that date, opened to the sport page. Barry read the article through. Higgins had gone exhaustively into the capabilities of the Broadmoor players, discussing them individually at some length. The reference to himself Barry found almost embarrassingly flattering. He was credited with having punted fifty-five yards,――which was true to the extent of one lucky performance in practice,――with being an exceptionally fast and clever runner, and with being the outstanding discovery of the football season at Broadmoor. Also, although the fact was not distinctly stated, the writer managed to give the impression that the young “punting ace” was being kept under cover. Barry went through the article a second time. It was just as he had thought. Higgins had discussed perhaps twenty players, but only in the case of Barry Locke had he let himself go. Nothing had been told of the others that would reach the rival camp as fresh news! He laid the paper down, with a puzzled look at Clyde. “That reads sort of――sort of funny,” he said. Clyde nodded. “It certainly does. I don’t get it, Barry. Either Higgins got that past without the Major seeing it or the Major tipped Higgins off to write it that way. And if it was the last, what’s the big idea? Every one says we’re certain to play a punting game through at least one half, and if we do he will have to use you. Tip Cartright can’t do it all; and, anyway, you’re better than he is, now.” They discussed the puzzle for several minutes without arriving at a solution. Then, partly because it was growing late and partly because he wanted to get away before Hal Stearns came in, Barry pocketed the paper at Clyde’s invitation and arose. As he did so his eyes lighted on a small black case on the big table. “Hello!” he said. “You’ve got one of those, too, haven’t you?” Clyde nodded, lifting the cover of the small typewriter and idly jabbing at a key. “Yes, a fellow named Whitwell is selling them around school and I thought I’d help him along. Besides, some of the faculty give you better marks, they say, if you turn in your stuff typewritten. Pretty good little contraptions, too. Want to try it?” Barry picked out his name on the keys and Clyde rolled the result into view. The effort hadn’t been very successful, for Barry had forgotten in one place to use the shift, and had evidently struck the wrong key on two occasions. Also, the capital B was not aligned with the other letters. The result was this: