“They was too smart for you, that’s about the size of it,” Mr. Skillen was saying. “If the’ isn’t any rule against buying up a coach, why, they’ve got you pinched.” “No rule is needed,” answered President John, pompously. “The league stands for the highest ideals in sport. It won’t countenance low tricks or dishonorable methods of winning or anything at all in the games that isn’t absolutely fair and right.” “It wasn’t fair and right to kick Jerry off the field, that’s a sure thing,” declared the alderman. “The other fellow got into him first with his shoulder. I saw him do it time and again.” An irrepressible titter ran round the circle at this ingenuous view of football etiquette. “We have to leave that to the officials,” President John hastened to say. “I think they roasted us several times, but we can’t help that. The other matter is one for the league itself to handle. It’s one of the most disgraceful performances in the annals of football!” The bystanders listened greedily. Mr. Skillen gave a sharp nod of approval. “That’s the way to put it—make it good and strong and stick to it. Your friends can give us a nice little story about it in the papers to-morrow. But what’ll come of it all, that’s what I want to know? Will there be anything doin’?” “We shall protest the game before the committee and demand that it be played again or declared forfeited.” “Forfeit!” decided Mr. Skillen, promptly. “Forfeit’s the thing. It wouldn’t help any to play it again. They’ve got too many trumps.” “Forfeited, then,” agreed Mr. Smith. “I’ll see Newbold about it at once.” President John disappeared through the door leading to the Newbury quarters, whither the curious young Westcott lads had not the audacity to follow. They hung about, however, hoping that he might reappear, and talked over the startling news in indignant whispers. They didn’t understand it all, but it was clear that their admired heroes were charged with buying signals from a Newbury coach and winning the game through the knowledge thus acquired. “It’s all rot,” decided Mike. “Somebody’s been kidding ’em. They’d believe any old lie, if they thought they could make anything by it.” “Why, my brother Jack would no more do such a thing than he would pick pockets!” said Dickie. “He’s awfully particular about those things, and Pete is just the same.” “They’re all the same, except Jason,”—there was nothing evil Mike wouldn’t believe about Jason,—“and Jason doesn’t count any more.” The president came forth, mopping his face with his handkerchief and setting his hat firmly on his head. From the window of the dressing room he had seen Mr. Westcott, lingering with three of his old boys near the entrance to the grounds. Toward this group he set a straight course, while the two lads fell in unnoticed behind him.