CHAPTER XXII

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.