of the stairway, Tom almost collided with a hurrying figure.
"Hello!" said Mr. Babcock. "Almost had—is that Kemble?" He stopped abruptly in his long stride. "Look here, are you square with the Office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good! Report to me this afternoon then."
"You mean—" Tom swallowed. "Yes, sir!"
"Come ready to play, Kemble." "Cocky's" voice came back from well down the corridor. "May be able to use you, young fellow!"
Well, things were happening strangely these days, thought Tom!
They went on happening that way at intervals, too. Tom joined the First Team squad on Monday. On Tuesday he played left half against his former companions of the Scrub, putting in almost as much time at that job as did Whitemill and getting off the one long forward-pass that secured any ground for the First. What it all meant Tom could guess as little as any one, with the probable exceptions of "Cocky" and Captain Dave. But the cat was out of the bag on Wednesday, and the heavens fell. I realize that the metaphors don't belong together, but each is satisfyingly apt.
On Wednesday the truth about "Big Bill" Fargo became known. He had been sent home Saturday on the advice of the school physician and now he was stretched out flat in some hospital with one knee entirely surrounded by plaster of Paris! Oh, he would be back
