“Frank Simpson has!” spoke Sid, quickly. “I saw him making a new kind of cleat for his football shoes the other day.”
“You’re a hot detective!” exclaimed Phil, with a laugh. “Our clock and chair were taken before Simpson came here.”
“That’s right,” agreed Sid, ruefully. “I wonder if the unknown visitor did anything to our new clock?” he went on, as he walked over to examine the timepiece. “Perhaps he left a note of explanation in it.”
But there was nothing, and the clock chimed out the time as cheerfully as ever, as though urging the new owners to never mind the mystery, since they had a better recorder of the hours than before. But the boys wanted their first love.
Our heroes were up early the next morning, to indulge in a practice run with the football squad—a little jaunt along the river, proposed by the exacting coach, with the idea of improving the wind of his men.
“Jove! but it’s getting cold!” remarked Tom, as rosy and glowing with health, he and his mates turned into the gymnasium for a shower, and vigorous rub before breakfast.
“Regular football weather,” agreed Sid. “Well, I feel as if I could tackle Boxer Hall and Fairview together now.”
“Keep on feeling that way,” urged the coach, grimly, as he passed by. “We all need it.”
An unexpected storm blew up that night, putting a stop to practice on the gridiron, and the squad had to be content with indoor work. The weather grew worse, and by night there was a gale blowing.