Lieutenant-Commander Havens was determined to know the truth.
"Mr.Jetson, had you anything in your possession, or did you wear anything, that could cut Mr.Damn's face like that ?" demanded the head coach.
"Nothing, sir, unless the sole of one of my shoes was responsible," returned Jetson, barely concealing his anger under a mask of respect to an officer of the Navy.
"Let me see your shoes; sit down on the ground first, Mr.Jetson." The midshipman obeyed, though with no very good grace, and held up his right shoe for the inspection of the head coach.
"Now the other shoe, Mr.Jetson.

Hm! Yes; along the inner sole of this shoe there are signs of what looks very much like blood.

See here, Mr.Hepson." "Yes, sir; most certainly this is a streak of blood rubbed into the leather along this rather sharp edge of the sole." "May I suggest, Mr.Havens," hinted Jetson, "that something else may have scratched Mr.Darrin's face, and that the blood trickled to my shoe?
I was under Mr.Darrin, somewhat, sir, in the scrimmage when the bunch went down." There was really nothing that could be proved, in any case, so the head coach could only say very quietly: "Let the practice go on, Mr.Hepson.Put Mr.Wardell temporarily in Mr.
Darrin's place on the line." There was one in the group who had not said a word so far.

But he had been looking on, his keen eyes studying Jetson's face.

That looker-on was Midshipman Dan Dalzell, who, as the reader knows, sometimes displayed a good deal of temper.
"Jetson," muttered Dan, as the other midshipman came over by him, "I shall need a little talk with you at the early convenience of us both." "Whenever you like," retorted Midshipman Jetson, flashing back a look of defiance.
Then the game went on.