"Have you got that much money?" asked the driver, incredulously.
"No," answered Speed, truthfully. "But Coach Brock has...!"
"Oh—be you Speed Bartlett?" exclaimed the driver, starting his car. "Suffering cats, boy! Then I'm gonna turn this old bus into a flyin' machine!"
"Good!" cried Speed, jumping in. "Oh—wait a second! I want to run in this telegraph office!"
A messenger boy, twenty minutes later, with the third quarter about four minutes under way, reached Coach Brock's side. The coach was intent upon the game inasmuch as his team was being pushed once more into the shadow of its own goal posts. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he took the yellow envelope and thrust it in a side pocket.
"Hey, Coach!" cried a substitute, grabbing his mentor by the arm. "That was a telegram!"
"Read it to me!" snapped Coach Brock, handing the wire over and not taking his eyes off the field.
The sub slit the envelope open and gazed at the message in bewilderment.
"Why—why—this is funny!" he exclaimed. "There's no name signed or anything—just one word...!"
"What is it?" asked the Coach. "Hold 'em out there! What's the matter with you fellows? Gordon, go in for Ochs at left tackle!... What did you say that one word was...?"