"Wimbledon would have a walkover," declared Aleck Anderson. "She'd score all the touchdowns she wanted," agreed Lent. "There'd be a slaughter." "Sure she would!" affirmed Sandy, proud of the impression his dastardly suggestion had made. "And if we put up all the money we could rake together on Wimbledon, we'd cop off a pile. We couldn't lose!" There was silence for a few moments, while the boys ruminated on the possibilities involved in the scheme. "But suppose we did offer Wimbledon the signals and they refused to take them?" suggested Aleck. "They might do that, you know." "Do you suppose we're going to call a mass meeting and offer them to Wimbledon in public?" sneered Sandy. "We'll have to sound out some one of the team, the one that would be likeliest to fall for it. Do you know any of the members of the team?" "I know them by sight, of course," replied Aleck Anderson. "But there's only one of them that I know well enough to talk to. I met him on my summer vacation. That's Bill Sykes, the captain of the team." "Captain, is he?" said Sandy quickly. "Better and better! How is he fixed--financially I mean?" "Poor as a church mouse," relied Anderson. "He was working as a waiter at the hotel where I was staying. He does some work during every vacation to help support himself, and even helps the janitor a bit around the high school during the school terms. But what has that got to do with it?" "It has everything to do with it!" replied Sandy jubilantly. "A few ten dollar bills would make him open his eyes. We could give him a slice of our winnings. And he needn't feel that he's doing anything wrong," the rascal added with specious sophistry, "for he'd only be helping his own school along. I tell you, Aleck, if you only put it to him right, the thing's as good as done!" They discussed the matter further, perfecting the details. Then they parted, convinced that the scheme would work. A couple of days later when they met again Aleck Anderson had a long face, and the other conspirators saw at once that something had happened. "What's the matter?" queried Sandy anxiously. "You look as though you had been to a funeral," commented Lent. "I'm afraid our cake is dough," replied Aleck, as he sat down disconsolately on a box in the Stewarts' garage, which was their usual place of meeting. "Why?" asked Sandy Podder. "Wouldn't Sykes fall for it?" "I haven't had a chance to see him yet," replied Aleck. "No, it isn't that. It's something that happened a little while ago when I was walking with Ed Bixby." "What was it?" fumed Sandy. "Get to the point. Has that boob been spilling the beans?" "Not on purpose; but I'm afraid he's done it just the same," explained Anderson. "You see it was this way. I had just met him and we were walking along, paying no attention to anybody. Then Bixby up and asked me: "'How about those signals, Aleck? Have you fixed it up with Wimbledon yet?'"