"About what?" asked the young millionaire, somewhat absently-mindedly.
"Well, for the love of mustard! Have you been dreaming while all this racket was going on? And you read that letter, too! I say, Dick, what's up?"
"Oh, yes, I remember now. I was thinking of something else," and Dick recovered himself with an effort, seeming to bring his thoughts back from some distant point. "The football team."
"Of course, the eleven—or, rather, the woeful lack of one. What's to be done, Dick? I rather thought you might have a scheme, when you heard the news."
There was silence in the room for a moment, and nearly all eyes were turned on Dick Hamilton.
"A plan—yes—I might—by Jove, fellows, I believe I have a plan!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It ought to work, too. We've got to have the best team on the gridiron in the Military League, and just now I thought of something that will bring it about."
"Then in the name of the two-horned rhinoceros speak it quickly!" begged Innis. "Say something so I can get back at this dub Anderson. I'll write him a hot one!"
"Oh, it will take a little while to put it through," went on the young millionaire, "but I believe I can do it. Now my plan is——"
At that moment one of the pages employed at the society house, which was sort of cadet club, approached the eager group of students.
"Beg pardon," the page said, "but here is a telegram that just came for Mr. Hamilton."