No one in the Scrub, that is. Almost any member of the First Team could have explained the mystery very promptly had he chose. But he didn’t choose. The First merely looked superior and a little bit contemptuous; and it took two Firsts and three Scrubs to separate Al Greene and “Swede” Hanbury in the shower room after “Swede” had made what sounded like a perfectly innocent observation regarding the afternoon’s proceedings. Even so the peacemakers didn’t intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, for Al was sniffing through an ensanguined nose as he was led protestingly away and “Swede” was working his jaws experimentally and prodding the left side of his chin with an inquiring finger. Beside the First Team members, however, the secret of the Scrub’s overthrow was known to one other at least. Loring, seated in his chair beyond the third turn of the running track, attended by the faithful Wattles, had used his eyes and his book-learned knowledge of football to advantage, and so, after supper, when Tom did not appear promptly at the room on the first floor of East, Wattles was sent in search of him. As Tom was in Mr. Babcock’s study just then, Wattles failed to find him. Clif, encountered by Wattles in a corridor, was of no assistance, for Clif had been searching for Tom himself. But Clif agreed to deliver the message when the missing one was found, and Wattles returned to report failure. Clif didn’t find an opportunity to deliver that message, however, until he ran into Tom on the way to assembly hall, and so it wasn’t until after study hour that the two reached Loring’s room. Tom had done very little studying, for the fact that Loring had sent for him had plunged him into a sea of conjecture. It might just be that Loring could throw light on the engrossing mystery. The chap was certainly sharp! Already he had offered two or three suggestions that, passed on to Coach Babcock, had been adopted to the betterment of the Scrub. Tom had acknowledged to Clif no later than Saturday that Loring was really being of use! “Say,” demanded Tom anxiously when Clif had closed the door behind them, “what’s on your mind, Loring?” “What’s on yours?” asked Loring smilingly. Tom groaned. “Not a thing in the world, old son! Nothing but the trifling recollection of having been licked 23 to 0 this afternoon. Come on! Spill it! I know you’ve got some sort of dope.” “Well, I know one reason why you got beaten so badly, Tom.” “What is it?” “First jumped you every time.” “O Sacred Ibis of the River Nile!” wailed Tom. “Is that the best you can do? Listen, Loring. Strange as it may sound to you, quite a few of us guessed that about five hours ago!” “And did you also guess why?” asked Loring sweetly. “We guessed, yes, but they were rotten guesses. Do _you_ know?” “I think I do. The answer is ‘Jackson.’” “Sim? How do you mean?” Tom sat up straight and opened his eyes widely.