"And to think that I paid ten dollars to get them here," reflected the Codfish. "Science can go hang in the future. Here," to the driver of the wagon, "take this blooming box of bones away somewhere and lose it forever." "It'll take five dollars to lose it right," said the driver, who with his two assistants, had hung around, grinning broadly at the discomfiture of the friend of science. "It's worth five to have it lost," said the Codfish as he went into his pocket for the necessary bill, "and if I ever see it or you again, beware of your life." "We'll take it to the soap factory, eh?" "No chance," said the Codfish gloomily. "The bones are not old enough for the Museum and too old for the factory. Eat them if you want to, only get rid of them somehow. I'm off," and he strode out to High street in a rage. But the Codfish had the newspaper man's sense, and that night wrote an article for his paper which explained that the find was only "semiprehistoric, and as such did not have the value that it was first supposed to have in spite of the authority of the first testimony." The Codfish did not know till later that his prehistoric stories netted him less than nothing, for he was docked ten thousand words by the _News_ board for handing in an article which contained so much misinformation. In such ways do the Fates trip up even unselfish friends of science. CHAPTER IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN. "I'd give good money, if I had it," quoth Turner, "to have to-morrow's game over and won." Half a dozen boys were gathered in the Pierson Hall rooms, and the talk was on the Exeter game which was to be played on the morrow. "Why so timid?" spoke up the Codfish, who was planning another assault on the _News_ columns. "This Exeter team is good, awfully good. Did you see what they did to Hotchkiss last week?" "Sure--16 to 0." "And what was our score against Hotchkiss?" "Nothing to 6." "Figuring at that rate it will be an interesting occasion for us to-morrow afternoon," said Frank Armstrong gloomily. "But then," more cheerfully, "you can never tell what will happen in football. If our friend James Turner could get away on one of his dashing runs, right early in the game, it might be a help." "I haven't been dashing much lately," said Turner. "My dashing has been chiefly on the ground." "The worm may turn," suggested Butcher Brown, a broad-shouldered and loosely built young chap who played a tackle position on the second Freshman eleven, and who lived on the same floor in Pierson, at the end of the corridor. "Speaking of worms," observed the Codfish, "did you notice the _News_ this morning?" "I saw it was printed as usual," said Frank. "Some good football news on the first page?" "Always thinking of football. Did you happen to look in the crew notices? Of course, you didn't." "What was it? Tell us. Have you been promoted?"