To gain the football field was but the work of a few seconds, and when Soda and his fellow conspirators rushed from the building, the two boys were watching the punting and tackling of team aspirants to the apparent oblivion of all else.
Not long did it take Buttons to descry Fred's yellow head, however, and with a whoop, he dashed at him, followed by his companions, one of whom bore the odoriferous box.
"What shall we do now?" asked Bronson nervously, as the shout reached his ears.
"Nothing. It's their move. Pretend to be interested in the practice—only keep your weather-eye open."
But though the newcomer tried to appear indifferent, when the cessation of the footbeats and the sound of heavy breathing announced the arrival of Soda and the others, he could not keep from looking around to see what they were doing.
"Ha! ha! His guilty conscience makes him fearful!" cried Buttons gleefully. "Clothespin, I'm surprised at you—not to say deeply grieved."
Determined to make amends for having allowed his curiosity to get the better of him, Bronson, ignoring the remark, looked at Fred.
"Who did you say that fellow with the ball is?" he asked.
"That's Tom Perkins, the best full back ever at Baxter," replied Fred, with a wink of approval, never turning his head.
"But how can you tell when only Firsts are allowed to try for the team?"