"Then I only wish there were more like him, Frank. The trouble is, too many boys, yes, and young men, too, believe that anything is fair that promises to bring the advantages to their side. Love of school is all very good, but it should never step in the way of honest dealing," observed the Princeton man, soberly. "Then we'll go on with the signals as they have been used?" asked the other. "To-day, yes, but in the morning we'll get the boys together early, and change the whole order, so that things mean just the opposite of what they are now. You get my meaning, don't you, Frank?" "Yes, and think it a capital idea. I've always been told that the truly wise man is he who grapples with adversities, and makes them work to his advantage. And that is what you propose to do now. Watch Lanky; he's up to some mischief or other. I can tell it in his actions. There he goes after the ball that he purposely kicked into those bushes, I believe." "Well, he's got it all right, and is calling to Substitute Buster that it's up to him to try for a field goal," commented the coach, smiling. "Yes; notice, however, that Lanky makes no effort to hold the ball for the kick, but has set it there on the ground," continued Frank, who knew the joking propensities of his chum so well that he could quickly guess when the other had any lark coming. "I suppose Lanky doesn't want to take chances of a bad kick, and, considering how near the game is, you can hardly blame him. Perhaps he's had some experience with Buster's kicking before. There he goes now!" "Look at Lanky, sir, with his fingers in his ears!" Hardly had Frank spoken when Buster, swooping down, with all sail set, on the inoffensive oval, brought his right foot against the ball with a tremendous effort. The result was certainly astonishing, for there was a sudden heavy detonation, and the football arose about ten feet, in a sadly flattened condition, while the kicker sat down heavily on the ground, looking dazed. Lanky had substituted some cleverly constructed gas balloon, placed in an old cover, for the genuine article, having previously hidden the fraudulent contraption in those bushes until the chance came to utilize the same. There was a brief silence, and then a shout went up from the husky band of players, who caught on to the joke. All but the dazed Buster, who, still sitting there and gaping at the seeming remains of a once fine oval football, shook his head and turned appealingly toward the coach, called out: "Say, that wasn't my fault, Mr. Willoughby. Now, who pays for that ball, anyhow?" which remark brought out renewed shrieks from the others, some of whom fairly fell over with the violence of their merriment. When the joke was explained to the fat boy, of course he laughed heartily, for his nature could not take offense at anything.