Garry's heart warmed toward the boy. He was square, at any rate, an honest foe. Of course, thought Garry to himself, Wimbledon, if it had any of the Lenox signals at all, had only the old ones that had now been discarded. Joe's errand, however well intentioned, had been needless. There was nothing to worry about as far as the signals were concerned. How lucky it was that Mr. Phillips had changed the old ones for the new! And how disconcerted the conspirators would be when they found that all their trickery had availed nothing! In the evening Garry called up the hospital and inquired about Joe Brench. He was infinitely relieved when he learned that the injuries, though serious, were not fatal. The broken leg was the principal damage. There appeared to be no internal injuries. The boy had been delirious for a time, but was now resting quietly. Yes, Garry could probably see him for a few minutes the next morning. But he must not stay long and must not say anything to excite him. So about eight o'clock the next morning Garry called at the hospital and was led by a nurse to the bed on which Joe Brench lay. The sick boy smiled up at Garry gratefully as the latter sat down in a chair at the side of the bed. "You're a bully scout," he murmured. "They tell me if you hadn't snatched me out of the way as quickly as you did, I'd have been killed, sure." "I wish I'd been able, Joe, to pull you out of the way altogether," replied Garry. "But you'll be all right now, they tell me here. It's only a matter of patience till your leg mends." "Remember what I was saying to you when the car came along?" asked Joe. "Oh, something about the game between Wimbledon and Lenox," replied Garry lightly. "But let that go now. You can tell me some other time." "But some other time will be too late," replied Joe. "I want that game to be an honest one. And it won't be as it stands now." "Why not?" asked Garry. "Because," said Joe, "Wimbledon has got your signals. Two or three of the fellows are going to profit by them. They tried to get me to go in with them, but I put them off. But the more I thought of it the crookeder it seemed, and I couldn't stand for it. I want Wimbledon to win, but win honestly. I hate dirty football." "So do I," replied Garry. "Now, Brench," he added, with a smile, "let me tell you something. Those signals that Wimbledon has are old ones. They're no good. We've thrown them into the junk heap and have taken up a complete new system. So we shan't worry. It's the crooks that will get left." "No, no!" exclaimed Joe. "You're all wrong! They've got the new ones!" "What?" cried Garry, hardly able to believe his ears. "They can't have! It's impossible!"