Dunn stood on the side-lines, dressed for play and ready to be called in if necessary. While he waited and observed the game, jesting aloud with Stover to show the bystanders how little his spirits were affected by his retirement from the team, Dunn noticed a stoutly built, showily dressed man, with a square face darkened by a heavy, close-shaven beard, who, while following the play, seemed at the same time to be interested in the conversation around him. Presently the stranger, having apparently made inquiries concerning Dunn from some of the smaller boys, called him aside and talked with him a few minutes out of earshot of the spectators. At the close of the conversation he put a slip of paper into Dunn’s hand and disappeared. Some time later, as Harrison trotted from the field across toward the locker house, he passed Stover and Dunn going in the same direction. “What do you think of Bumpus now?” he called over his shoulder as he went by. “You can make a football player out of ’most any fat old thing,” returned Stover. “It’s different in baseball. I say, stop a minute, Harry!” Harrison turned round. “What is it?” “We want to see you as soon as you get dressed about something important, very important! We’ll give you fifteen minutes.” Before the allotted time was up, the captain emerged from the locker house, pulling on his coat as he came. Dunn followed him. Stover drew them both into a corner. “Do you know Jake Callahan?” he asked. “The Newbury coach? I know who he is.” “He isn’t coach any longer, they’ve fired him,” said Stover. “He was here this afternoon for a little while watching the game. He picked Jason out of the crowd and made him a proposition. Go ahead, Jason!” “He’s terribly sore on Newbury because they haven’t treated him right,” explained Dunn, eagerly. “He says he can let us have the diagrams of all their best plays and the signals for ’em. He doesn’t mean to sell ’em, he’s just going to give ’em to us; but all the same if they help us, and we _want_ to make him up a purse of a few dollars on the quiet, he’ll take it. He left his address with me.” Harrison looked from one face to the other, but said nothing. “You see, if you had the signals,” continued Dunn, “and knew what the play was going to be, you could stop ’em wherever you wanted to. Of course you wouldn’t want to do it too often, or you’d give yourselves away. It might be better to let only four or five good fellows in on the thing, and then there wouldn’t be so much danger of getting caught at it.” “We could raise ten or twenty dollars for Callahan among a few fellows who’d keep their mouths shut,” said Stover. “I’ll attend to that. Yards needn’t know a thing about it.” “Do you think it’s quite—honorable?” asked Harrison, hesitatingly. He needed no lessons from either Stover or Dunn to appreciate the advantages to be derived from knowing an opponent’s signals.