Startling News
Garry Grayson's head was in a whirl as he ran along. Surprise was one
element in his perturbation. Anger at the scoundrelism that dogged his
steps was another. Chagrin was there, too, at the narrow escape from
being outwitted by the conspirators.
He and his mates had been chuckling about the way Wimbledon would be
flabbergasted when it tried to use the stolen signals, only to find
that they were not being employed by Lenox at all. Now the laugh was
on Lenox. It would have run its head right into the trap and gone down
to certain defeat had it not been for Joe Brench's scorn of underhand
methods.
As fast as his legs could carry him, Garry ran for Mr. Phillips's
house. Luckily the coach was at home, and Garry was ushered into his
study. Mr. Phillips looked up in surprise and some alarm as the boy
came in, flushed and breathless.
"What's up, Grayson?" he asked quickly.
"Enough," answered Garry, as he took the chair Mr. Phillips indicated.
"Wimbledon has our signals--the new ones--and is planning to use them
this afternoon!"
Mr. Phillips was shaken out of his usual calm.
"What?" he exclaimed. "Are you sure? Don't you mean the old ones?"
"No, the new ones," repeated Garry. "The ones we've been practicing on
the last two weeks. There's no mistake, Mr. Phillips. I got it straight
only a few minutes ago."
He then narrated his interview with Joe Brench. The coach listened
intently, putting in a question here and there.
"Of all the undiluted rascality!" he exclaimed, rising and pacing the
floor. "Who would have believed that those fellows would go as far as
that? It seems incredible. Why didn't I have the gymnasium searched
before I gave you the new set of signals?
"Oh, well," he went on, "what's done is done. We're lucky, anyway, to
get the tip even at this late hour. Now let me think."
He bowed his head on his hands for a few minutes while Garry watched
him anxiously.
"There's just one thing to do," pronounced Mr. Phillips at last. "We'll
go back to the old signals."
Garry started.
"I suppose that is the only thing to do," he assented dubiously. "But
of course we've been trying to forget those for the last two weeks,
and we've got no time now to practice the old ones again. I'm afraid
the fellows will get all mixed up."
"I'm afraid so too," admitted Mr. Phillips. "But it's the only thing
left for us to do. It would be suicide to use the new ones that
Wimbledon knows. And we've got to remember that if our boys get
confused, Wimbledon, too, is apt to get rattled when she finds we're
not using the signals to which she's been tipped off. So maybe it will
be a standoff. At any rate, it's our only chance.
"Now just one thing more, Grayson. Don't say a word about this to any
of the team. They might let it leak out inadvertently. I'll give them
their instructions just before they go out on the field. And don't get
too discouraged over the outlook. True, the boys have been practicing
the new signals for the last two weeks. But, remember, they've been
familiar with the old ones for two years, and the force of old habit
will assert itself, if they set themselves earnestly to the work."
Garry drew what comfort he could from this and hurried home to get a
light lunch before he repaired to the field for the decisive struggle
of the season. He was glad, anyway, that the game was to take place
on the Lenox grounds. That ought to count for something in the home
team's favor.
Whatever apprehension he felt, he concealed under a bright exterior,
and to all appearances was his usual confident, aggressive self as he
chatted with his comrades in the gymnasium. Also, he had searched every
closet before Mr. Phillips appeared on the scene.
"All ready to whip Wimbledon, boys?" asked the coach cheerily.
A roar of assent rang through the gymnasium. The boys were in high
feather, and showed it.
"Good!" said Mr. Phillips. "Go in and wipe up the earth with them.
You're trained to the minute. I've never seen you in better form."
He paused for a moment.
"I'm going to say a thing that may surprise you," he went on, "but you
must believe that I know what I'm doing and that it's for the best.
We'll use the old signals in this game."
There was a gasp of surprise that had in it a suggestion of panic. The
players looked at each other in amazement.
"Steady, boys," counseled the coach. "You heard me. Put the new signals
out of your mind. Build up a blank wall between your mind and them. You
can do it! After all, the old ones are far more familiar. They'll come
back to you instinctively. Do as I say and you'll win. Out with you now
on the field!"
"Come along, fellows!" called Garry, and trotted out, followed by his
more or less dazed comrades.
For ten minutes they practiced falling on the ball and running through
the old signals. Then, as the moment for the game approached, Garry
gathered his boys together and indicated a certain point in the crowded
stands.
Their eyes followed his and rested on Sandy, Lent, Aleck Anderson, and
Ed Bixby. The quartet was in a hilarious mood.
"See those fellows?" cried Garry. "They've bet on Wimbledon. They're
rooting for us to lose. Are you going to let them gloat over us?"
"No!"
Garry could have made no more timely appeal to the fighting spirit of
his team.
"All right, then," commanded their captain grimly. "Go in and wipe that
smirk off their faces!"