So Willard told him, giving a very complete and detailed account of the affair, and McNatt listened and nodded and blinked occasionally until he had finished. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he said: “It seems, then, that you fellows made your mistake in painting the score on the Principal’s wall. I mean, you did no worse than Hillsport did otherwise.” “We didn’t do as much as she did,” answered Willard resentfully. “Those fellows painted the score all over the town here; more than a dozen times, I guess; we only painted it twice.” “Yes, I recall seeing the signs,” McNatt reflected. “Has it occurred to you as possible that a proper presentation of your case has not been made to the Hillsport Principal?” “I don’t know. Anyway, what he thinks doesn’t worry us. It’s what faculty here thinks. And they think we ought to be punished. And we are.” “I see. I only thought that possibly--” McNatt’s voice trailed into silence, and he remained silent so long that Willard finally got up and took his departure. McNatt pulled the cord that operated the door bolt in a most absent-minded manner and aroused himself from his abstraction only long enough to murmur “Good afternoon.” Outside, Willard smiled to himself and shook his head. “McNutt!” he muttered. Usually the last hard practice preceding the big game was held on Wednesday, but this year the team was kept at it on Thursday as well. On Wednesday the second team, fight as it might, was snowed under, three touchdowns and a field-goal to nothing, and on Thursday, although Coach Cade gave the ball to the second time and again inside the first’s thirty-yard line, the latter’s goal was not crossed. On the other hand, McNatt twice broke away for long runs that led to as many scores. The mass meeting on Thursday evening was more enthusiastic than any that had gone before, and the cheers had a grimly determined sound usually lacking. It was on Thursday that Martin returned to Number 16 Haylow just before dinner time from a hurried trip to West Street and, tossing his purchase on his bed and warming numbed fingers over the radiator, announced with a chuckle: “McNutt’s got a new line, Brand.” “What sort of a line?” asked Willard, pushing his book away and tilting perilously back in his chair. “What do you mean, line?” “Photography,” replied Martin. “I met him over in Bagdad a few minutes ago taking pictures of the stores. It’s colder than the dickens, but all he had on was a muffler around his neck.” “_What!_” “Don’t play the goat. You know what I mean. He looked awfully funny, standing there winding up his little camera in the middle of the street, with the wind blowing a gale!” “What’s he photographing the stores for?” asked Willard, puzzled. “Search me! Some new science, I guess. He’s a queer one. Coming to dinner?”