It would be foolish to say that Reade was not afraid, but he was determined to keep Ebony from discovering the fact. "Yo's to keep yo' hands up longer dan yo' can keep yo' moufs shut!" scowled the black man, his ugly streak showing once more. "It makes me think of the way we used to play football," laughed Reade, though there was not much mirth in his chuckle. "Shut yo' mouf, or Ah done gib yo' plenty to think erbout!" ordered Sambo angrily. That word "football" set Dick Prescott to tingling. He knew there was some hidden meaning in what Tom had said. "Are you trying to signal us, Sambo?" queried the army officer. That word "signal" was intended only for Tom's ear, for Lieutenant Prescott was beginning to guess at the truth. "On the gridiron, on the gridiron!" hummed Tom, audibly, as he tried clumsily to fit the words to the refrain of a popular song. Dick Prescott was "getting warm" on the scent of the hidden meaning. "Shut yo' mouf!" gruffly commanded the lack. "Ah doan' wantah tell yo' dat again, neider." "Right foot---high foot!" chanted Tom. Mentally Dick Prescott jumped as though he had been shot. "Right foot---high foot" had been one of their old kicking signals on the Gridley High School eleven! Lieutenant Dick Prescott fairly throbbed as he now understood the covered signal. "Now!" left Reade's lips with explosive energy, though the word was low-spoken. At "right foot---high foot" and "now" each youth suddenly shot his right foot up into the air. Tom's landed against Sambo's right wrist, kicking the automatic revolver completely out of the negro's hands. Dick's kick landed against the black man's left wrist. The pistol held in Sambo's left hand was discharged, though the muzzle had been driven up at such an angle that the bullet passed harmlessly over Prescott's head. In a twinkling Ebony had been disarmed. Darting low, Tom grappled with the negro's legs. Then Reade rose swiftly, toppling Sambo over backward. Dick Prescott bounded upon the prostrate foe, beating him with both fists. Tom also threw himself into the melee. While the black might have thrashed either youth alone he was not equal to handling both at the same time. "I've got him, now, and he'll behave, I guess," panted Tom Reade, at last. "Slip off, Dick, and gather in the pistols." As Prescott did so Sambo made the last few efforts of which he was capable. He had been hammered so hard, however, that Tom did not have extreme difficulty in holding him down. "Now, lie still and take orders," warned Dick, pressing one of the pistols against the black man's temple, "or I'll get excited and send you out of this world for keeps!" Sambo Ebony thereupon dropped into sullen muttering, but did not offer to resist. Prescott, as a soldier, had a businesslike way of handling weapons that cowed the black man. Tom got up leisurely from the prostrate foe.