Stover grinned. “Honorable? Sure! Why not? Ain’t it their business to have signals we can’t discover? Wouldn’t you play for the right side if some one came and told you the Newbury right tackle was weak? Don’t we always try to find out what kind of a ball a batter can’t hit?” “The cases aren’t similar,” returned Harrison. “There’s no use in arguing about it,” said Stover. “It’s nothing to me. We give you a chance to get the game. You can take it or leave it. I thought you wanted to win.” Wanted to win! Was there anything Harrison at that moment wanted more? He looked up and caught sight of Talbot and Hardie sauntering past the corner on their way to Hardie’s room. “Here’s Pete,” said the captain; “let’s see what he says.” And before the emissaries of the disgruntled coach could interpose an objection, he had called the pair over and was bidding Dunn repeat Callahan’s offer. Dunn obeyed with alacrity, happy in the conviction that by the service which he was now rendering, he was taking a long step forward to the recovery of his lost popularity. As he spoke, growing more and more eager in the unfolding of the advantages to be gained and the best method of using the new information, Hardie dropped his gaze to the ground, where he kicked away impatiently at a stubby tuft of grass, while Talbot held his eyes fixed on the narrator’s face, his cheeks darkening and swelling with rising emotion. Slowly Dunn became aware that the impression which he was making was not the one intended. His eloquence wavered; his speech dwindled to an abrupt and confused end. “Well, what do you think of it, Pete?” asked Harrison, quietly, swinging round upon his friend. “I think it would be a dirty, mean trick!” Talbot burst out in wrathful staccato. “A hundred victories couldn’t wipe out the disgrace of it!” “That’s just my opinion,” declared Harrison. “As you have the man’s address, Dunn, you’d better write him what we think of his offer.” Harrison turned back into the locker house; Talbot and Hardie went off toward the dormitory. Stover watched the retreating figures for a few seconds in silence, then emitted a loud, mocking laugh. “Have it your own way, you angels, you nice boys, and get slaughtered,” exclaimed Dunn, in deep disgust. “I’m through with the thing.” He crumpled the envelope on which was written Callahan’s address and threw it on the ground. Several minutes later, when the coast was clear, a strange boy who had been watching from the outer fence, strolled across the yard, picked up the twisted scrap of paper, and thrust it into his pocket. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER IX THE NEWBURY GAME