The broker stayed somewhat later than he had at Phil Keran’s rooms the night before. A good part of the time was spent in discussing the football situation. Clarence Carr was a wonderfully clever man, and, moreover, he had a distinct object in view. Little by little, his insidious words penetrated to Jack Kenny’s mind and stayed there. It was all so cleverly done that the quarter back did not realize for a single moment that there was anything underneath the pleasant, jovial broker’s discourse, punctuated now and then by witty stories and amusing anecdotes. But the result was that, by the time Carr took his leave, Kenny’s dislike for Don Tempest had been fanned into a flame of hatred. His sense of unfair treatment rankled bitterly, while his contempt for the captain’s methods reached a point where he began to entertain serious doubts of the fellow’s ability as a leader. Under such a man’s guidance, he reflected, how was it possible that the team could work to any advantage? Already the fellows were grumbling against his exactions. What would it be like on the day of the game, when nervousness and self-doubt is always rampant? Carr’s hearty “good night” floated upward from the stairs, and Kenny closed the door with a sigh and stood thoughtfully by the table. Nothing seemed sure, now. He was even growing doubtful of their ability to wrest a victory from the crimson. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVI THE SCHEME. As Clarence Carr left Vanderbilt Hall he seemed to be in even higher spirits than usual. Swinging briskly down the drive with a smile on his face and humming a little tune under his breath, he passed through the ornate gateway and turned to his left down Chapel Street. He had good reason to be satisfied with the evening’s work. He had been even more successful than he had hoped. The ball had been started rolling, and there was nothing left for him now but to watch it carefully and make sure that it kept on its way. It took but a moment to reach the New Haven House, where he paused in the lobby, keenly scrutinizing the occupants of the comfortable leather-covered chairs. “Not here,” he murmured under his breath. “But I hardly expected he would be.” Without delay, he passed on to the bar, and he had scarcely stepped inside the doorway before his eyes fell upon the figure of the man for whom he was looking. He was rather under medium height, and very fat. The striking, violet-colored waistcoat covered a vast expanse of rotundity, and across the front was looped a massive gold chain which looked almost like a cable, hanging pendant from which, at the point where it passed through the buttonhole, were half a dozen fobs, lockets, and diamond-studded trinkets.