“Well, after all is said and done,” came from Bert Fost, who by reason of weight was ineligible for the nine, but who was an enthusiastic supporter, “when it’s all over, I think we’ll wipe Amherst off the map.”
“We will—if the nine isn’t broken up,” declared Jimmie.
“Broken up—what do you mean?” and Bert glared at the questioner.
“I mean that if it’s proved that some member of the team did this red paint business it’s all off with him having a chance to play against Amherst.”
“Oh, piffle!” declared Bert. “That punk is written by some lad who’s trying to make good on the News so he’ll get tapped for Scroll and Keys. Forget it.”
But it was not so easily forgotten, for the article seemed to have some definite knowledge behind it, and the editorial, though student-inspired, as all knew, was a sharp one.
“If it really is Weston I’m sorry for him,” thought Joe, little thinking how near he himself was to danger.
There were new developments the next morning—a certain something in the air as the young men assembled for chapel told that there was about to be a break. And it came.
“Here comes the Dean!” the whisper went round, when the exercises were nearly over. “Something’s going to be cut loose.”