“Mr. Westcott!” called the high official, sharply, as he drew near. The college boys lifted their hats and went their way. Mr. Westcott turned with a pleasant look on his face, and in his heart a kindly feeling for all the world, including this man Smith. The afternoon had brought him a full measure of happiness; first the splendid playing of his team, then a shower of hearty greetings from old boys—and tokens of regard from former pupils, be it understood, are the sweetest morsels an honest schoolmaster can roll beneath his tongue. “Mr. Westcott!” came in a loud, contentious voice from beneath the brown derby. “We shall protest that game,—I mean the captain of the Newbury team has protested it.” Mr. Westcott’s smile vanished in a flash, and an expression of bewilderment overspread his face. “Protested!” he repeated. “I do not understand. On what ground, pray?” “Your team, it appears, bought or at least got the signals which Newbury was to use from a discharged coach, and so were able to anticipate and block the Newbury plays.” “It appears from what?” asked the schoolmaster, coldly. President John hesitated. “Well, from the game itself and—from other facts.” “Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Westcott, speaking with head thrown back, in tones resonant with indignation, “you probably do not realize the insulting character of the charge which you are bringing. If I understand you to mean that the Westcott management plotted to win the game with stolen signals, I assure you the charge is both false and slanderous. There is a bad mistake somewhere. I know my boys, as you do not; they are incapable of such an act.” “I didn’t want to believe it myself, sir,” said President John, for the instant abashed, “but the facts are such—” He stopped and tried to think what the facts really were. “The facts?” persisted Mr. Westcott. “They will be stated fully at the meeting of the committee which I shall call,” answered John, recovering himself. “I merely desired to give you notice that I had received the protest.” He turned and bent his steps toward his allies at the dressing rooms, driving two urchins in flight before him. Long before his pompous strut brought him to the Newbury end of the locker building, the two young scouts had burst in among the Westcott players with a whoop and a yell, had gathered about them in a trice an elbowing crush of the dressed and half-dressed, and with mutual support and interruption, were devoting themselves to the delectable task of relating the news. The audience listened wild-eyed, questioned, and exploded in exclamations. When the fire of questions slackened and the exclamations began to pop, Dunn seized his suit-case and silently stole away. This crowd was no place for him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER XI A FRUITLESS INTERVIEW