“Oh, about a murder and a peach of a detective chap named ‘Young Sleuth.’ You see, this old codger Middleton was found murdered in his library, surrounded by oodles of money. There was only one window in the room and that was all barred over with steel bars. And there was only one door and that was locked on the inside and they had to break it open. How’s that for a situation? You see, having his money all scattered around showed that he wasn’t killed for that, don’t it? And the barred window and the door locked on the _inside_――get that, Dick? On the _inside_, mind you!――thickens the plot a bit, eh?” “Rather!” agreed Dick, anxiously viewing a buggy half a block ahead. “How did the murderer get in, Fudge?” “Why, you see――well, I haven’t worked that out yet,” he confessed. “I’ve just got to where the old millionaire’s beautiful daughter sends for ‘Young Sleuth’ to unravel the mystery and bring her father’s murderer to justice. It’s going to be a peach of a story, all right!” “Sounds so,” returned Dick, sighing with relief as the buggy turned to the right into Common Street. “You must read it to me when you get it finished. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get ‘Young Sleuth’ to work for us here, Fudge, and find a football coach.” “That’s right! Isn’t it the limit for Farrell to leave us like this? I hope they turn him down good and hard when he comes back in the Spring and wants to coach the nine again!” “I guess he couldn’t do anything else, Fudge. Farrell’s all right. You or I’d do the same thing probably if we got word that our mother was very ill in Ireland and wanted to see us. We’d do just as Joe did; pack up and go back there.” “Maybe,” agreed Fudge. “But it leaves us in an awful hole, doesn’t it? Lanny White says he doesn’t know where to look for a new coach, and it’s pretty late, too. Mr. Grayson told him he guessed we’d better try to do without a coach this Fall. Just as if we could!” “I suppose it would be hard,” said Dick. “Gordon said that Lanny had heard of a man in Bridgeport.” “He didn’t pan out,” replied Fudge. “He was a man Bert Cable knew, but he hadn’t ever coached a football team. Now Lanny’s after a chap in Westport. He coached Torleston High a couple of years ago. It’s a bum outlook, say what you want. Lanny’s going to make a dandy captain, but he can’t coach too. No one could. There’s the First Team, and the Scrub Team and the Third Squad. Maybe if Lanny didn’t do any playing himself he’d get by all right, but what’s the good of a captain who doesn’t play? Besides, he’s too good a halfback to lose.” “It’s too bad,” observed Dick sympathetically as, having turned into Common Street, he now drew the runabout to the side of the road where a gate appeared in the high board fence surrounding the athletic field. “By the way, where are you going to play, Fudge?”