Putting the Tag on the Sneak
Anything that Dick Prescott had charge of went along at leaps
and bounds. Hence the football eleven was in good shape ten days
earlier than Coach Morton could remember to have happened before.
"Your eleven is all ready to line up in the field, now, Captain,"
announced coach, one afternoon not long after, as the squad came
out from dressing quarters for practice.
"I'm glad you think so, sir," replied Dick, a flush of pleasure
mantling his cheeks.
"You have every man in fine condition. Condition couldn't be
better, in fact, for those of the men who are likely to get on
the actual battle line. And all the work is well understood,
too. In fact, Captain, you can all but rest on your oars during
the next fortnight, up to your first game."
"Hadn't we better go on training hard every day, sir?" inquired
the young captain.
"Not hard," replied coach, shaking his head. "If you do, you'll
get your men down too fine. Now, there's almost more danger in
having your men overtrained than in having them undertrained.
Your men can be trained too hard and go stale."
"I've heard of that," Dick nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," continued coach, "and I've seen school teams that suffered
from training down too fine. Boys can't stand it. They haven't
as much flesh in training down hard, and they haven't as much
endurance as college men, who are older. Captain, you will train
your men lightly, three afternoons a week. For the rest, see
to it that they stick to all training orders, including diet and
hygiene and no tobacco. But don't work any of the men hard, with
an idea of getting them in still better shape. You can't do it."
"Then I'd like to make a suggestion, Coach."
"Go ahead, Captain."
"You never saw a school team, did you, sir, that understood its
signal work any too well?"
"Never," laughed Mr. Morton.
"Then I would suggest, sir, that most of our training time, from
now until the season opens, be spent on drilling in the signals.
We ought to keep at practicing the signals. We ought to get
the signals down better than ever a Gridley team had them before,
sir."
"You've just the right idea, Captain!" cried Mr. Morton heartily,
resting one hand around Dick's shoulders. "I was going to order
that, but I'm glad you anticipated me."
"Hudson," called out Prescott, "you head a scrub team. Take the
men you want after I've chosen for the school team."
Dick rapidly made his choice for the school team. He played center
himself, putting Dave Darrin at quarter, Greg Holmes as left tackle
and Tom Reade as right end. Dalzell and Hazelton were left out,
but they understood, quite well, that this was to avoid showing
favoritism by taking all of Dick & Co. on the star team for practice.
"Let me play quarter, Hudson," whispered Drayne, going over to
the acting captain of the "scrub."
"Not this afternoon, anyway," smiled Hudson. "I want Dalzell."
Drayne fell back. He was not chosen at all for the scrub team.
Yet, as he had nearly a score of companions, out of the large
football squad, he had no special reason to feel hurt. Those
who had not been picked for either team lined up at the sides.
There was a chance that some of them might be called out as subs,
though practice in signal work was hardly likely to result in
any of the players being injured.
Drayne did not appear to take his mild snub very seriously.
In fact, after his one outbreak before the team captain, and his
subsequent remarks to the girls, Drayne had appeared to fall in
line, satisfied even to be a member of the school's big squad.
The ball was placed for a snap-back, and Coach Morton sounded
the whistle.
"Twelve-nine-seventeen---twenty-eight---four!" called Dave Darrin.
Then the scrimmage was on in earnest. As soon as the play had
properly developed Mr. Morton blew his whistle, for this was
practice only in the signal part.
Then Hudson took the ball and Dalzell called off:
"Nine---eight---thirteen---two!"
Again the ball was put in play, to be stopped after ten seconds.
So it went on through the afternoon's work. The substitutes on
the side lines watched with deep interest, for they, too, had
to learn all the signal work.
Within three afternoons of practice Dick had nearly all of his
players so that they knew every signal, and were instantly ready
to execute their parts in whatever was called for.
But there was no danger of knowing the signals too well. Captain
Prescott still called out the squad and gave signal work unceasingly.
"The Gridley boys never jumped so swiftly to carry out their signals
before, Captain," spoke Mr. Morton commendingly.
"I want to have this line of work ahead of anything that Tottenville
can show next Saturday," Dick replied.
"I guess you have the Tottenville boys beaten all right," nodded
Mr. Morton.
Tottenville High School always gave one of the stiffest games
that Gridley had to meet. This season Tottenville was first on
the list. Prescott's young men knew that they had a stiff fight.
It was to take place on the Gridley grounds---that was comfort
to the home eleven.
The entire student body was now feeling the enthusiasm of the
opening of the season on Saturday.
The townsmen of Gridley had subscribed as liberally as ever to
the athletics fund. There had also been a fine advance sale of
seats, and the Gridley band had been engaged to make the occasion
a lively one.
"You'll win, if ever the signs were worth anything, Captain,"
remarked Mr. Morton to Prescott, at recess Thursday forenoon.
"Of course we'll win, sir," laughed Dick. "That's the Gridley
way---that's all. We don't know how to be whipped. I've been
taught that ever since I first entered the High School."
"Pshaw!" muttered Drayne, who was passing.
"Don't you believe our chances are good, Mr. Drayne?" asked Mr.
Morton, smiling.
"I look upon the Gridley chances as being so good, sir," replied
Phin, "that, if I weren't a member of the squad, and a student
of the High School, I think I'd be tempted to bet all I could
raise on Tottenville."
"Betting is too strong a vice for boys, Mr. Drayne," replied the
submaster, rather stiffly. "And doubt of your own comrades isn't
very good school spirit."
"I was talking, for the moment, as an outsider," replied Phin
Drayne, flushing.
"Change around then, Mr. Drayne, and consider yourself, like every
other student of this school, as an insider wherever the Gridley
interests are involved."
Drayne moved away, a half-sneer on his face.
"I don't like that young man," muttered Mr. Morton confidentially
to the young captain of the team.
"I have no violent personal admiration for him," Prescott answered.
Then the bell sounded, calling all the boys and girls back to
their studies.
At just about the hour of noon, a young caller strode into the
yard, paused an instant, studying the different entrances of the
High School building, then kept straight on and entered.
"A visitor for Mr. Prescott, in the reception, room," announced
the teacher in charge of the assembly room.
Bowing his thanks, Dick passed out of the room, crossed the hall,
entered a small room, and turned to greet his caller.
A fine-looking, broad-shouldered, bronzed young man of nineteen
rose and came forward, holding out his hand.
"Do you remember me, Mr. Prescott?" asked the caller heartily.
"I've played football against you, somewhere," replied Dick, studying
the other's face closely.
"Yes, I guess you have," laughed the other. "I played with Tottenville
last year. I'm captain this season. Jarvis is my name."
"Oh, I'm downright glad to see you, Mr. Jarvis," Dick went on.
"Be seated, won't you?"
"Yes; if you wish. Though I've half a notion that what I have
to say may bring you jumping out of your seat in a moment."
"Anything happened that you want to postpone the game?" inquired
Prescott, taking a chair opposite his caller.
"No; we're ready for Saturday, and will give you the stiffest
fight that is in us," returned Jarvis. "But see here, Mr. Prescott,
I'll come direct to the point. Is 'thirty-eight, nine, eleven,
four' your team's signal for a play around the left end, after
quarter has passed the ball to tackle and he to the end?"
Dick started, despite himself, for that was truly the signal for
that play.
"Really Mr. Jarvis, you don't expect me to tell you our signals!"
laughed Dick, pretending to be unconcerned.
But Jarvis called off another signal and interpreted it.
"From your face I begin to feel sure that I'm reeling off the
right signals," pursued the Tottenville youth. "Now, I'll get
still closer to the point, Mr. Prescott."
From an inside pocket Jarvis drew forth four typewritten pages,
clamped together and neatly folded.
"Run your eye over these pages, Mr. Prescott, or as far as you
want to go."
As Dick read down the pages every vestige of color faded from
his face.
Here was Gridley's whole elaborate signal code, laid down in black
and white to the last detail. It was all flawlessly correct,
too.
"Mr. Jarvis," said Dick, looking up, "you've been a gentleman
in this matter. This is our signal code, signal for signal.
It's the code on which we relied for our chance to give your team
a thrashing on Saturday. I thank you for your honesty, sir."
"Why, I always have rather prided myself on a desire to do the
manly thing," smiled Captain Jarvis.
"May I ask how this came into your possession?" demanded Dick.
"It was in our family mail box, this morning, and I took it out
on my way to school," replied Jarvis. "You see, the heading on
the first sheet shows that the document purports to give the Gridley
signals."
"And it does give them, to a dot," groaned Prescott, paling again.
"So I showed it to our coach, Mr. Matthews, and to some of the
members of the team," continued Mr. Jarvis. "I would have brought
this to you, in any case, and I'm heartily glad to say that every
one of our fellows agreed that it was the only manly thing to
do."
"You have won the Gridley gratitude," protested Dick. "This code
couldn't have been tabulated by anyone but a member of our own
squad. No one else had access to this list. There's a Benedict
Arnold somewhere in our crowd," continued Dick, with a sudden
rush of righteous passion. "Oh, I wish we could find him. But
this typewriting, I fear, will give us no conclusive evidence.
Was the address on the envelope in which this came also typewritten?"
"No," replied Mr. Jarvis. "I opened this communication on the
street, while on my way to school. I tossed the envelope away.
Then I fell to studying this document."
"You must have thought it a hoax," smiled Dick wearily.
"I did, at first, yes," continued the Tottenville football captain.
"In fact, I was half of that mind when I left Tottenville to
come here. But I was determined to find out the truth of the
matter. Mr. Prescott, I'm very nearly as sorry as you can be,
to have to bring you this evidence that you have a sneak in Gridley
High School."
"I'd far rather have lost Saturday's game," choked Prescott, "than
to discover that we've such a sneak in Gridley High School. I'm
fearfully upset. I wish I had any kind of evidence on which to
find this sneak."
"Have you any suspicions?"
"That would be too much to say yet."
"Of course, Mr. Prescott," continued the Tottenville youth, "you'll
now have to revise all your signals. It will be a huge undertaking
between now and Saturday. If you wish to postpone the game, I'll
consent. Our coach has authorized me to say this."
"I think not," replied Dick, "though on behalf of the team I thank
you. I'll have to speak to our coach, and Mr. Morton is in his
classroom, occupied until the close of the school session."
"I'll meet you anywhere, Mr. Prescott, after school is over."
"You're mighty good, Mr. Jarvis," murmured Dick gratefully. "Now,
by the way, if we're to catch the sneak who has done this dastardly
thing, we've got to work fast. We ought not to let the traitor
suspect anything until we're ready to act. Mr. Jarvis, do you
mind leaving here promptly, and going to 'The Morning Blade' office?
If you tell Mr. Pollock that you're waiting for me, he'll give
you a chair and plenty to read."
"I'm off, then," smiled Jarvis, rising and reaching for his hat.
"I want to shake hands with you, Jarvis, and to thank you again
for your manly conduct in bringing this thing straight to me."
"Why, that's almost insulting," retorted Jarvis quizzically.
"Why shouldn't an American High School student be a gentleman?
Wouldn't you have done the same for me, if the thing had been
turned around?"
"Of course," Dick declared hastily. "But I'm glad that this fell
into your hands. If we had gone into the game, relying on this
signal code-----"
"We'd have burned you to a crisp on the gridiron," laughed Jarvis.
"But what earthly good would it do our school to win a game that
we got by clasping hands with a sneak and a traitor? Can any
school care to win games in that fashion? But now, I'm off for
'The Blade's office---if your Mr. Pollock doesn't throw me out."
"He won't," Dick replied, "I'm a member of 'The Blade' staff."
"Don't go back into assembly room with a face betraying as much
as yours does," whispered Captain Jarvis, over his shoulder.
"Thank you for the tip," Dick responded.
When young Prescott stepped back into the general assembly room
his face, though not all the color had returned to it, wore a
smiling expression. He stepped jauntily, with his head well up,
as he moved to his seat.
For fifteen minutes or more Dick made a pretense of studying his
trigonometry hard. Then, picking up a pen with a careless gesture,
he wrote slowly, with an appearance of indifference, this note:
_"Dear Mr. Morton: Something of the utmost importance has come
up in connection with the football work. Will you, without mentioning
this note, and without doing anything that can sound the warning
to any other student, meet me at 'The Blade' office as soon as
possible after school is dismissed? I shall go to 'The Blade'
office just as soon as I get away from here, and I shall await
you in the greatest anxiety.
"Prescott."_
This note Dick carried forward and left on the general desk.
It was addressed to Mr. Morton, and marked "immediate."
When the reciting classes returned, and the teachers followed,
Mr. Morton read his note without change of expression.
A moment later school was dismissed.
"In a hurry, Dick?" called Dave, racing after his leader as the
young men made a joyous break away from the school building.
"Yes," breathed Prescott. "Come along, Dave. But I don't want
the others, for I don't want a crowd."
"Why, what-----"
"Quiet, now, old fellow," murmured Dick. "You'll have a big enough
surprise in a few moments."
They got away together before their other chums had a chance
to catch up.
"From the look in your face, I'd say that there was something
queer in the air," guessed Dave.
"There is, Darrin. But wait until the moment comes to talk about it."
Walking rapidly, the two chums came to "The Blade" office. Jarvis,
who had been sitting at the back of the office, rose as the two
Gridley boys entered. Dick quietly introduced Dave to the young
man from Tottenville who greeted him cordially.
"Now, we're waiting for one more before we talk," smiled Dick
anxiously.
At that moment the door opened again, and Mr. Morton entered briskly.
"Now, Captain, what is your news?" called coach, as he came forward.
"Why, this is one of the Tottenville team, isn't it?"
"Mr. Morton, Captain Jarvis, of the Tottenville High School team,"
replied Dick, and the two shook hands.
Then Dick drew the typewritten document from his pocket. They
could talk here, for Mr. Pollock had been the only other occupant
of the room, and that editor has just stepped out to the composing
room.
"Captain Jarvis received this in the mail this morning, sir,"
announced Prescott, in a voice that quivered with emotion.
Coach glanced through the paper, his face showing plainly what
he felt. Then Dick took the paper and passed it to Dave Darrin,
who sat consumed by curiosity.
"The abominable traitor---whoever he is!" cried Dave, rising
as though he found his chair red hot. "And I think I can come
pretty near putting the tag on the sneak!"