A jeer from the others accompanied the taunt, but Chester kept straight ahead. He was thoroughly angry inside, but he knew that it would never do to accept that challenge. Chester was no coward, but he realized that it would look rather disgraceful for a member of the Clearfield team to visit Springdale as a scout and then get into a fracas! All the way down the stand, and, indeed, until they were well back into the town, they were uncomfortably conscious of the curious, amused, often unfriendly regard of the Springdale fellows, and more than once the word “Spy!” reached them as, striving to converse unconcernedly, they followed the returning throng toward the town. But eventually they found themselves alone, and Lanny heaved a sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t do that again for a thousand dollars!” he said emphatically. “And I wouldn’t do it for ten thousand,” replied Chester. “The next time Dick wants any dirty work like that done he may do it himself! The worst of it was we couldn’t fight!” “Which,” replied Lanny dryly as they boarded a car, “was lucky for us!” CHAPTER XII THE BOARD OF STRATEGY “Home again from a foreign shore,” murmured Lanny as they climbed down from the car in the Square. “I wonder how the game came out. Bet you we got licked, Chester.” “I don’t believe so. We’ll ask somebody.” He looked about him but caught sight of no one he knew. “There’ll be some of the fellows in Castle’s, I guess. Come on in. Want a soda?” “No, thanks. I must be getting home. I’ll call up Gordon on the ’phone and find out. Will you be around at Dick’s after supper?” “Yes. Wait a minute, Lanny! There’s Fudge Shaw in there. He’ll know about the game.” Lanny, who had started toward the crossing on his way home, rejoined Chester and together they pushed through the crowd at the doorway of the popular drug store. At the right, in a corner which held a cushioned settee and two or three small wire-legged tables, sat Fudge. An emaciated rubber plant hung its leaves above his head, a tall glass of ice-cream soda was in one hand and a dripping spoon in the other, and his eyes were fixed ecstatically on the big glass jar which, suspended in the nearer window, glowed with carmine and purple. “It’s a shame to wake him,” chuckled Chester, as they wormed their way through the throng. “What an awful looking mess he’s eating!” “How did the game come out, Fudge?” demanded Lanny anxiously. Fudge’s rapt gaze fell slowly away from the hypnotic brilliancy. “Eh?” he murmured. Lanny impatiently repeated the question, while Fudge blinked and brought his thoughts back with an evident effort. “Hello, fellows! Game? Oh, they beat us. Thirteen to seven.” “What do you know about that?” demanded Lanny disgustedly. “Isn’t that the dickens?” “How did they do it, Fudge?” asked Chester. “Made two touchdowns to our one,” replied Fudge, dipping his spoon in the harlequin concoction and conveying a liberal portion of it to his mouth.