into the crowd with his chair, and so made his way back to East Hall. Once there, he devoted the rest of the time before study hour, and much time thereafter to a careful and thoughtful perusal of the many papers he had brought back with him; or, to be more exact, to certain items in those papers. Tom, coming downstairs after that enervating experience in Mr. Wyatt’s study, saw the crowd at the end of the corridor, and joined it as fast as he could. An acquaintance named Bumstead, a slight, sandy haired youth, who wore big, round spectacles, and whom Tom disliked cordially, presented himself as the nearest source of information. Bumstead turned incredulous, but joyous eyes on the inquirer. “Say, haven’t you heard?” he exclaimed almost shrilly. “Gee, where have you been?” “Picking daisies,” replied Tom impatiently. “Spill it!” “Otis is sick, and can’t come back the rest of the season! He’s got the ‘flu’! They just got word from him.” “Roll your hoop!” said Tom incredulously. “Who says so?” “Gee, it’s true! Ask any one. Faculty’s called a meeting of the Athletic Committee, too. This evening. In ‘Pinky’s’ room. Ask any one.” “If ‘G. G.’s’ so blamed sick how could he write and tell about it?” demanded Tom witheringly. “Of course, I’m not saying he hasn’t got the ‘flu’; lots of folks have it; but it’s crazy to say he isn’t coming back.” “Maybe he didn’t write himself,” said Bumstead. “Maybe it was the doctor or some one. Anyway――” But Tom had caught sight of Joe Whitemill, of the First Team, and he plowed his way through to him. “What’s it all about, Whitemill?” he asked anxiously. “Is ‘G. G.’ really out of it?” “Eh? Oh, hello, Kemble. Yes, that’s the way we get it. He’s down with influenza, and the doctor says he won’t be able to do any more coaching this season. I don’t know where the story came from, though. Every one has it, but no one knows where it started. For my part――” “It’s straight goods,” interrupted Jimmy Ames, appearing at Tom’s side. “Mr. Connover told Dave Lothrop and Dave spilled it a few minutes ago. Faculty’s sent word to the Committee to get busy, and there’s going to be a meeting in a few minutes.” “But, Great Heck!” exclaimed Tom. “What――what――why, that’ll play the very dickens, won’t it?” Whitemill grinned, but the grin held no humor. “Oh, no, not at all! Swapping coaches ten days before the big game is a mere trifle, Kemble. It’s easy when you――” “There won’t be any swapping,” predicted Jimmy. “Where’d we get a new coach now? Anyway, he wouldn’t know the team, and he’d be worse than none. ‘Pinky’ will take Otis’s place, of course.” “That’s so,” said Tom. “Well――but, heck, fellows, it’s going to make a difference! How does ‘Pinky’ know what Otis was going to do? Or does he know?” “Search me,” said Whitemill despondently. “I suppose they’ve talked things over a good deal, though. Anyway, we’ll pull through somehow. Hang it, we’ll beat that bunch without any coach at all if we have to!”