The depot master whooped and slapped his knee.  Mr. Wingate grinned delightedly and continued: 

“There!” he went on, “the cat’s out of the bag, and there ain’t much more to tell.  Everybody made a bolt for the room, old Gabe and Peter T. in the lead.  Grace let her dad in, and the ball was ripped open in a hurry.  Sure enough!  Inside, between the leather and the rubber, was the missin’ agreement.  Among the jubilations and praise services nobody thought of much else until Snow, the Pinkerton man, come upstairs, his clothes tore and his eyes and nose full of sand.

“‘Humph!’ says he.  ’You’ve got it, hey?  Good!  Well, you haven’t got friend Parker.  Look!’

“Such of us as could looked out of the window.  There was the launch, with Parker and his three ‘friends’ in it, headin’ two-forty for blue water.

“’Let ’em go,’ says old Gabe, contented.  ’I wouldn’t arrest ’em if I could.  This is no police-station job.’

“It come out afterwards that Parker was a young chap just from law school, who had gone to work for the firm of shysters who was attendin’ to the Gordon interests.  They had tracked Sterzer to the Old Home House, and had put their new hand on the job of gettin’ that agreement.  Fust he’d tried to shine up to Grace, but the shine—­her part of it—­had wore off.  Then he decided to steal it; and he done it, just how nobody knows.  Snow, the detective, says he cal’lates Henry, the servant, is wiser’n most folks thinks, fur’s that’s concerned.

“Snow had found out about Parker inside of two days.  Soon’s he got the report as to who he was, he was morally sartin that he was the thief.  He’d looked up Willie’s record, too, and that was clear.  In fact, Willie helped him consider’ble.  ‘Twas him that recognized Parker, havin’ seen him play on a law-school team.  Also ’twas Willie who thought of the paper bein’ in the football.

“Land of love!  What a hero they made of that waiter!

“‘By the livin’ Moses!’ bubbles old Gabe, shakin’ both the boy’s hands.  ’That was the finest run and tackle and the finest kick I ever saw anywhere.  I’ve seen every big game for ten years, and I never saw anything half so good.’

“The Pinkerton man laughed.  ’There’s only one chap on earth who can kick like that.  Here he is,’ layin’ his hand on ‘Willie’s’ shoulder.  Bearse, the All-American half-back last year.’

“Gabe’s mouth fell open.  ‘Not “Bung” Bearse, of Yarvard!’ he sings out.  ‘Why!  Why!’

“‘Of course, father!’ purrs his daughter, smilin’ and happy.  ’I knew him at once.  He and I were—­er—­slightly acquainted when I was at Highcliffe.’

“‘But—­but “Bung” Bearse!’ gasps the old gent.  ’Why, you rascal!  I saw you kick the goal that beat Haleton.  Your reputation is worldwide.’

“Willie—­Fred Bearse, that is—­shook his head, sad and regretful.

“‘Thank you, Mr. Sterzer,’ says he, in his gentle tenor.  ’I have no desire to be famous in athletics.  My aspirations now are entirely literary.’