CHAPTER XXIV

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!"