But despite all his efforts, the lethargy persisted. It was not that the boys did not try. They had never tried harder. But a spell seemed to have fallen upon them. They were like a lion whose spine has been grazed by a hunter's bullet so that it can barely drag its deadened body along. In vain the coach fumed and stormed, and figuratively beat his breast and tore his hair. They winced under the whip, they strained in the harness, but they couldn't pull the load. And at length "Bull" Hendricks realized that what he had been dreading all season had come. The team had "slumped." There are over three hundred thousand words in the English language, and many of them are full of malignant meaning. Fever, pestilence, battle, blood, murder, death have an awful significance, but in the lexicon of the coach and trainer of a college team the most baleful word is "slump." This plague had struck the Blues and struck them hard. It was a silent panic, a brooding fear, an inability of mind and muscle to work together. There was but one remedy, and "Bull" Hendricks knew it. The next day a dozen telegrams whizzed over the wires. They went to every quarter of the continent, from Maine to Texas, from the Lakes to the Gulf. And the burden of all was the same: "Team gone to pieces. Drop everything. Come." If one had looked over the shoulder of the telegraph operator, he would have seen that every address was that of some man who in his time had been famous the country over for his prowess on the gridiron, and who on many a glorious field had worn the colors of the Blues. One of them was delivered in the private office of a great business concern in Chicago. Mr. Thomas Ames, the president--better known in earlier and less dignified days as "Butch"--turned from the mass of papers on his desk and opened it. His eyes lighted up as he read it and saw the signature. Then the light faded. "Swell chance," he muttered, "with this big deal on." He turned reluctantly to his desk. Then he read the telegram again. Then he sighed and bit viciously at the end of his cigar. "Nonsense," he growled. "There's no use being a fool. I simply can't, and that's all there is to it." He crushed the telegram in his hand and threw it into the waste basket. Ten minutes later he fished it out. He smoothed out the wrinkles and smiled as he noted the imperious form of the message. He was more accustomed to giving orders than obeying them, and the change had in it something piquant. "Just like 'Bull,'" he grinned. "Arrogant old rascal. Doesn't even ask me. Just says 'come.'" "Off his trolley this time though," he frowned. "Nothing doing." The pile of letters on his desk remained unanswered. His stenographer waited silently. He waved her away, and she went out, closing the door behind her. He lay back in his chair, toying idly with the telegram.