The High School Captain of the Team | Page 8

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