The Stolen Signals
Bill Sykes sat up with a jerk, while Sandy and his companions watched
him narrowly.
"If we could get the Lenox signals!" he exclaimed. "Of course it would
be a cinch. But how on earth could we get them? They hold them tighter
than a miser grips a dollar."
"I've got them right here in my pocket," replied Sandy, tapping his
coat.
"But--but--I don't understand," stammered Bill Sykes, looking from one
to the other in a bewildered manner. "How did you get them? Why do you
bring them to me? What's the big idea, anyway?"
"Never mind how we got them," replied Sandy. "The fact is, I have them.
And I'm offering them to you free, gratis, for nothing. As to the big
idea, it's this. Lenox High has done us dirt. It's thrown three of us
out just on account of a bit of a lark. It's barred another of us from
athletics just because he roughed it a little with that boob, Garry
Grayson. Is it any wonder we're sore? Who wouldn't be that had any
spirit? We want to get even with the school that's treated us that way,
and we don't know anything that would hit it harder than to have the
team it's so proud of beaten by Wimbledon. There you have the whole
thing."
"I can see why you feel sore," said Bill slowly. "But as to my taking
the signals, I--I don't know. It's a thing that isn't done. It doesn't
seem sportsmanlike."
"Oh, cut out that sportsmanlike stuff," counseled the tempter. "You
want to win, don't you? You're looking out for the best interests of
Wimbledon, aren't you? Don't be too namby-pamby. It never got any one
anywhere. You owe it to your school to do everything you can to win.
Lenox would do it quickly enough, if the situation were reversed."
"Besides," put in Lent, "it isn't as if you yourself had deliberately
set to work to get the signals. Some people might criticize you, if you
did that. But when they're handed to you on a silver tray, as it were,
you'd be just a plain fool not to take them. There's such a thing as
standing up so straight that you fall over backward."
"It would be different, too, if we were asking you to sell us
Wimbledon's signals," put in Sandy. "Then it would be all right for you
to refuse to hurt your own school. But we're not asking you to hurt
Wimbledon. We're giving you a chance to help her."
Seeing that his sophistry was having some effect, Sandy played his
trump card.
"Not only will you be helping your school, but you'll be helping
yourself financially," he said. "I don't mind telling you that my
friends and I are going to put up all the money we can rake together
on Wimbledon to win, and we'll see that you get a good slice of all
the cash that we pull in. To show you that I'm not bluffing--" here he
pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and took off several--"here's
twenty-five dollars on account. That's only a fraction of what you'll
get, if you put this thing through."
He laid the bills on Bill Sykes's lap. It was a strong temptation to
a boy who was compelled to count every cent he spent. Bill succumbed,
after several minutes' hesitation, compromising with his conscience
by telling himself that, after all, he was helping his school. Sandy
grinned evilly in the semi-darkness.
Then followed a discussion on ways and means. Bill thought he could
get two or three of his team to help him utilize the signals, simply
telling them that he had happened accidentally to learn them and that
it would be no harm to use them for Wimbledon's advantage.
So it was a hilarious group of plotters that, after putting Bill Sykes
down at his home, rode back to Lenox.
"Trust little Sandy!" gloated that young fellow, as he bade his pals
good-night. "When he starts a thing, he finishes it."
In the meantime, Garry and his team, blissfully unconscious of the
danger threatening them and confident that they had spiked the enemy's
guns by the change of signals, were working incessantly at practice.
And work it was, for the old signals would keep constantly obtruding
themselves into the new.
For a few days there was endless confusion, but gradually the kinks
were straightened out, and by the end of the week the new system was
working fairly well. Still, there was much apprehension in Garry's mind
as to what might happen in the heat of the actual game that was now
only a short time away. Also, his rage at the rascals whose actions had
made all this change necessary rose at times to a white heat.
The day before the game with Wimbledon was to take place Garry was
stopped on the street by a boy whose face seemed familiar, but whom he
could not place at the moment.
"You're Garry Grayson, aren't you?" the boy asked.
"Yes," replied Garry. "And you--oh, I know now who you are! You're Joe
Brench, quarterback of the Wimbledon team. I played against you last
year. Friendly enemies?" he added, with a grin.
"Yes," replied Joe, with an answering smile. "And I suppose we'll play
against each other again to-morrow. It was that, in fact, I came over
to see you about."
"Is that so?" asked Garry guardedly. "What's up? Going to call the game
off or anything?"
"No, not that," replied Joe. "It was--it was--Oh, I hardly know how
to begin. Look here, Grayson!" He braced and spoke decidedly. "I want
Wimbledon to beat the life out of Lenox to-morrow. But I want it to be
done fairly and squarely--on the level. I--"
"Look out!" yelled Garry.
Down the hill at the foot of which the boys were standing came plunging
a runaway automobile. The boys had been so engrossed in their talk that
they did not notice it until it was nearly upon them.
Joe Brench was standing squarely in its path. Like a flash Garry
grabbed him and pulled him partly out of the way. Not far enough,
however, for the car struck Joe's legs and threw him violently to the
ground.