Dick laughed. “Well, we’ll see. To be frank, Gordie, you haven’t shown up as well as Tupper or Hansard, and I can’t very well keep more than two substitute halves. In fact, to stay with Squad A you’ll have to beat out either Hansard or McCoy. Unless――” Dick hesitated and it was not until they had crossed Main Street that he continued. Then, “I wonder how you’d shape up at end, Gordie.” “Try me,” said Gordon. “I’ve never played end. But, say, you’ve got all kinds of good ends, Dick! Bryan was a wonder to-day, and then there’s Felker and Toll and Grover. Still, I’d like to try. I’m a pretty rotten halfback, that’s certain!” “All right. I’ll try you to-morrow. We must be late. Look at the mob at the door!” “There’s Fudge and Harry. I’ll ask them to get our tickets.” And Gordon, whose turn it was to treat, slipped his two dimes into Fudge’s hand just as that youth reached the window where sat the resplendent ticket seller. “Hello, Gordon! Two? Sure! Four of your best tickets, please!” The latter remark was addressed to the ticket seller and elicited only a haughty stare and four little blue tickets torn from a seemingly endless strip. But Fudge chuckled at his own joke, quite unaffected by the man’s hauteur, and the four boys crowded through the door and sought seats together in the darkened house. The Auditorium prided itself on being very high-class and Fudge was soon grumbling about the sort of photo-plays being presented. “Gee,” he confided to Dick, “these pictures make me tired! They never have anything exciting any more. Say, know what I’m going to do? Well, I’m going to make that story I’m writing into a ‘movie’ play. How’s that?” “Great!” said Dick. “How are you getting on with it?” “Pretty well,” answered the other with a sudden lapse of enthusiasm. “The trouble is I don’t seem able to work it out. You see, the fellow who murdered the old codger, Middleton, had to get into that room somehow, didn’t he?” “I suppose he did,” agreed Dick. “Well, but how could he? There were bars at the window and the door was locked inside.” “I guess he committed suicide, Fudge.” “Couldn’t have,” responded Fudge decidedly. “The wound was on the back of his head.” “You could change that, couldn’t you?” “Y-yes, but that wouldn’t do. He had to be murdered so that Young Sleuth could unravel the mystery, don’t you see? I thought maybe I’d have it that the murderer was hidden somewhere in the room and escaped afterwards, but Young Sleuth looked everywhere. There’s six pages about his examination of the room and his finding a clew.” “What sort of a clew did he find?” asked Dick, trying to seem interested in Fudge’s conversation and at the same time follow the story being thrown on the screen. “Finger-prints,” confided Fudge, “and a piece of torn paper with three words on it.” “Fine! What were the words?”