The president came forth, mopping his face with his handkerchief and setting his hat firmly on his head. From the window of the dressing room he had seen Mr. Westcott, lingering with three of his old boys near the entrance to the grounds. Toward this group he set a straight course, while the two lads fell in unnoticed behind him.
“Mr. Westcott!” called the high official, sharply, as he drew near. The college boys lifted their hats and went their way. Mr. Westcott turned with a pleasant look on his face, and in his heart a kindly feeling for all the world, including this man Smith. The afternoon had brought him a full measure of happiness; first the splendid playing of his team, then a shower of hearty greetings from old boys—and tokens of regard from former pupils, be it understood, are the sweetest morsels an honest schoolmaster can roll beneath his tongue.
“Mr. Westcott!” came in a loud, contentious voice from beneath the brown derby. “We shall protest that game,—I mean the captain of the Newbury team has protested it.”
Mr. Westcott’s smile vanished in a flash, and an expression of bewilderment overspread his face. “Protested!” he repeated. “I do not understand. On what ground, pray?”
“Your team, it appears, bought or at least got the signals which Newbury was to use from a discharged coach, and so were able to anticipate and block the Newbury plays.”
“It appears from what?” asked the schoolmaster, coldly.
President John hesitated. “Well, from the game itself and—from other facts.”
“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Westcott, speaking with head thrown back, in tones resonant with indignation, “you probably do not realize the insulting character of the charge which you are bringing. If I understand you to mean that the Westcott management plotted to win the game with stolen signals, I assure you the charge is both false and slanderous. There is a bad mistake somewhere. I know my boys, as you do not; they are incapable of such an act.”
“I didn’t want to believe it myself, sir,” said President John, for the instant abashed, “but the facts are such—” He stopped and tried to think what the facts really were.
“The facts?” persisted Mr. Westcott.