After Wimbledon had kicked off and Lenox had failed to make its distance in the first three downs, Rooster was forced to kick and the ball was Wimbledon's in midfield. Ford and Chambers got away a pretty forward pass, and it looked as though the visitors might accomplish something with their overhead attack. But the Lenox defense was too agile and smart. After Garry had dashed around the right end of the visitors for a twenty-yard gain, Nick hurled a ten-yard forward pass to Knapp, who shot headlong through the Wimbledon line for an eight-yard gain and brought the ball to the enemy's ten-yard line. Sherwood gained three yards. Nick made a bold attempt to get round the end for a score, but was forced out of bounds. Then Lenox made a bluff line play, and Tom Allison tossed a pretty forward pass to Garry, who was behind the line waiting for the ball, and Garry shot through for another touchdown. Bill kicked the goal while the Lenox stands went crazy. Stung to desperation, Wimbledon made a stiff defense after that, and the period ended with the score 27 to 0 in favor of the home team! While his team had been piling up points Mr. Phillips had been coming to a decision. He had watched every play with the eyes of a hawk. He had hoped that on reconsideration Wimbledon, or those of the team who had been let into the secret of the Lenox signals, would finally decide to throw them into the discard and play straight, honest football. But as the game progressed he noted that they were depending upon their illegitimate knowledge, or supposed knowledge. He could tell by the way the Wimbledon men swayed to the right or the left at given signals and by the confusion that resulted when the expected play had not come off that they were using the code that Sandy had slipped to them. That they should suffer from their unsportsmanlike conduct was perfectly proper. Lenox was playing straight football. If Wimbledon tried crooked work and slipped up in the attempt, she was only getting what was coming to her. But Wimbledon! Ah, there was the rub! The school was not crooked. The coach was not crooked. Probably only two or three of the team had been taken into the secret. The rest of the boys were probably playing honest ball. It seemed too bad that they should all suffer from the dishonest scheme of a few. So at the first opportunity he had--the fifteen minutes' rest between halves--Mr. Phillips decided on an unusual but a generous thing. He sought out Adams, the Wimbledon coach, an old acquaintance with whom he was on the friendliest terms. "Hello, Phillips!" Adams greeted him, summoning up a wry smile. "Your boys are certainly putting it all over us to-day. Have you come to gloat over me?" "Nothing like that, Adams," said Mr. Phillips, with an answering smile as he grasped the other's extended hand. "Simply to give you a tip. You're a mighty good football man. Haven't you noticed something queer about the playing of some of your boys?"