That they could beat Bass Lake, Lenox felt reasonably certain. Greenfield would be a harder nut to crack. And harder yet probably would be the final game with Wimbledon, the team that had given Lenox its only defeat the year before and this year was reported to be stronger than ever. Wimbledon had already won both games it had played, and by impressive scores. So, while Lenox held none of its opponents cheap, it had the feeling that Wimbledon was the team it would have to beat if it again carried off the championship. Practice went on unremittingly under the driving force of Mr. Phillips. A weakness was lopped off here, a crudity there, until the team developed into a smoothly working, hard-fighting one that no opponent could beat without putting up a tremendous battle. "No more sixty-three to six scores this season!" chuckled Nick after a day of sparkling practice. "Not unless we're on the big end of the score," returned Garry. "I guess we got all the bad football out of our systems in that Thomaston game." "No more traitors on the team, anyway," stated Rooster. "N-no," replied Bill hesitatingly. "That is, I hope not." "What do you mean by that?" asked Garry quickly. "You hope not! Don't you know there aren't!" "I'm sure there are none on the regulars," replied Bill. "But I feel a little leary about one fellow on the scrubs." "Who is that?" demanded Garry. "Well, perhaps I ought not to say it," responded Bill. "Mind, fellows, this is in strict confidence. I may be all wrong. But haven't you noticed something a little queer about Ed Bixby at right tackle?" Garry pondered for a moment. "Not especially," he replied slowly, "except that he seems to forget himself sometimes and resorts to dirty football. He's roughed me a good deal lately when I've come in contact with him, but I laid that to his eagerness to win." "Maybe," admitted Bill. "As I say, I may be wrong. But what struck me is that he doesn't resort to those tricks except when he's up against you. He's all right with the other fellows, plays hard but plays fair. But he gives you the knee whenever he can. And when he tackles you he slams you to the ground as hard as he can. Looks as though he were trying to put you out." "I remember he slugged me yesterday," replied Garry. "But I thought he had lost his temper in the excitement of the game and I let it go at that." "By itself, it might not prove anything," replied Bill. "But he was a great pal of Anderson's, and several times lately I've seen Ed with him in the street, their heads together and both talking earnestly. Of course, that may mean nothing. Then again, it may mean a good deal. Anderson, of course, is as sore as a boil at you, and if you could be put out of the game it would be pie for him and the bunch he trains with, Sandy Podder, Lent Stewart, and Chat Johns. I just wanted to put a flea in your ear, old boy, so that you'd be on your guard."