To Jimsy’s credit be it said that he didn’t hide behind any such anonymity as “A Friend” or “Wellwisher” or “Fair Play.” No, sir, Jimsy came right out and signed the bottom of that chirographic bombshell plainly with his name, thus: “James Duffy Carnochan.” It was a bombshell, too, if for no other reason than that it exploded so unexpectedly. It was addressed to Coach Cade, and it reached that already harassed gentleman by the first mail delivery on Saturday morning. It ran as follows: Mr. John Cade, 87 Academy street, City. DEAR SIR: You might like to know that one of your football players isn’t eligible to play on your team. His name is Renneker but it wasn’t that last August when he played first baseman for the Maple Leafs baseball team of New London, it was George Ralston. He got twenty-five dollars for playing first baseman and if you don’t believe it please communicate with John Worrall in Care Broady Silk Mill, New London. Worrall managed the Maple Leafs and paid the money to Ralston or Renneker cash before the game started, as he will tell you. I guess he can’t deny it anyway, not if you ask him right out. Wishing you a successful season, Resply yours, JAMES DUFFY CARNOCHAN. Coach Cade frowned, read the epistle a second time, laughed shortly and thrust it into a pocket. He had received similar communications before to-day, sometimes written in good faith, sometimes purely mischievous. Then he reflected that here must be an example of the former sort, since the writer had not only signed his name but, evidently as an after-thought, placed an address on the flap of the envelope. Nevertheless, in the press of other matters Coach Cade forgot the letter for several hours, and it wasn’t until he pulled it forth from his pocket when seeking another document that he recalled its annoying existence. This was just after early dinner was over at training table, and Gordon Renneker was still in sight by the dining hall door. The coach excused himself to Tod Tenney and made after the player. “Renneker,” he said, overtaking the big fellow just outside the hall, “got a minute to spare?” Renneker assented and followed the other along the path that led around to the gymnasium. Coach Cade produced the letter and handed it to Renneker. “Got that in the morning’s mail,” he explained. “I’m not taking any stock in it, you understand, but you’d better see it.” Gordon Renneker read the epistle through calmly and handed it back, with a smile. The smile, however, was not quite natural, and the coach noted the fact. “Well,” he asked, “what about it?” “I’d say,” replied Renneker, “it’s a case of mistaken identity.” “Probably,” agreed Johnny, eyeing him sharply nevertheless. “I presume you never played baseball on this team?”