At this moment the office boy entered with the mail sack.

“Mr. Pollock!” he bellowed, tossing the sack down on the editor’s desk.  Then the office boy hurried to the rear of the building, intent on other duties.

Mr. Pollock returned to his desk, opening the mail.  The football folks in the further corner lowered their voices almost to whispers.

“Letter for you, Dick,” called Mr. Pollock, tossing aside an envelope.

Excusing himself, Dick darted over to get his mail.  In an instant he came back, with a flushed face.

“Here’s something that may interest you all,” whispered Dick, shaking as though fever had seized him.

Mr. Morton took the sheet of paper, from which he read: 

"Dear Old Gridleyites:  If the enclosed is a fake, it won’t work.  If there’s really a traitor in your camp you ought to know it.  Milton High School doesn’t take any games except by the use of its own fair fighting devices.  Decker, Captain, Milton High School Football Team."

“And here’s a duplicate set of our signals, returned by our Milton friends,” went on Dick, with almost a sob in his voice.  “Fortunately, Mr. Decker thought to preserve the envelope that contained our signal code.  Here is the envelope, addressed in some person’s handwriting.”

Coach Morton seized the envelope, staring at it hard.  He studied it with the practiced eye of a school teacher accustomed to overlooking examination papers in all styles of handwriting.

“The writer has tried to conceal his handwriting,” murmured the coach, rather brokenly.  “Yet I think we may succeed in tracing it back and fixing it on the sender.”

“Oh!” growled Dave Darrin savagely.  “I believe I know on whom to fasten this handwriting right now.”

“I have a possible offender in mind,” replied Mr. Morton more evenly.  “In a case of this kind we must proceed with such absolute caution and reserve that we will not be obliged to retract afterwards in deep shame and humiliation.”

“I think I’ve done all that I can, gentlemen,” broke in Mr. Jarvis.  “I think it is my place, now, to draw out of this painful business, and leave it to you whom it most concerns.  But I am happy in the thought that I have been able to be of some service to you.  I will now state that I am authorized to offer to postpone Saturday’s game, if you wish, so that you may have time in, which to train up under changed signals.”

“If you consent, sir,” proposed Dick, turning to the coach, “we’ll go on with Saturday’s game just the same.  There has been a big sale of tickets, the band has been engaged, and a good many arrangements made that will be expensive to cancel.”

“Can you do it?” asked Mr. Morton, looking doubtfully at thee young captain of the team.  “It’s Thursday afternoon, now.”

“I feel that we’ve got to do it, sir,” Dick replied doggedly.  “Yes, sir; we’ll make it, somehow.”