Then a bushy mop of football hair was thrust into the doorway.
"Talking strategy, signals or anything we shouldn't hear ?" asked the pleasant voice of Forsythe, captain of the Hallam Heights boys.
"Not a blessed thing," returned Dave.

"Come in, gentlemen." Captain Forsythe, in full field toggery, came in, followed by the members of the visiting team, all as completely attired for work.
"We're really not intruding ?" asked Forsythe, after he had stepped into the room.
"Not the least in the world," responded Dave heartily.

"Mr.Forsythe.
let me introduce you to Mr.Morton, our coach, and to Mr.Prescott, the real captain of this tin-pan crowd of pigskin chasers." "Oh, I mistook you for Prescott," replied Forsythe, as he acknowledged the introductions.
"No; I'm Darrin, the pewter-plate second captain---the worst you've got to fear to-day," laughed Dave, as he held out his hand.
"Why---what----anything happened ?" asked Captain Forsythe, looking truly concerned.
"Captain Prescott has had his knee injured, and two of our other crack men are in bed, sick," replied Mr.Morton cheerfully.

"Otherwise we're all quite well." "Your captain and two other good men out ?" asked Forsythe in real sympathy.

"That doesn't sound fair, for we came over here prepared to put up the very best we had against you old invincibles.