Ten minutes later he sat in Lloyd Fenneben's library.
“I have come for help,” he said in reply to the Dean's questioning face.
“I hope I can give it,” Fenneben responded.
“It's about tomorrow's game. There are sure to be some professional players on the other team. I want Sunrise to win. I want to win myself.” Vic's voice was harsh tonight. And the Dean caught the hard tone.
“I want Sunrise to win. I want you to win. There will probably be some professionals to play against, but we have no way of proving this,” Fenneben said.
“What do you think of such playing, Doctor?” Vic asked.
“I think the rule about professionalism is often a strained piece of foolishness. It is violated persistently and persistently winked at, but so long as it is the rule there is only one square thing to do, and that is to live up to the law. You should not dread any professionalism in the game tomorrow, however. You'll bring us through anyhow, and keep the Sunrise name and fame untarnished.” The Dean smiled genially.
Burleigh's face was very pale and a strange fire burned in his eyes.
“Dr. Fenneben”—his musical voice rang clear—“I'm only a poor devil from the short-grass country where life each year depends on that year's crop. Three years out of four, the wind and drouth bring only failure at harvest time. Then we starve our bodies and grip onto hope and determination with our souls till seedtime comes again. I want a college education. Last summer burned us out as usual within a month of harvest. Then the mortgage got in its work on my claim and I had to give it up. I had barely enough to get through here at pauper rates this year—but I could n't do it and keep Bug, too. I went into Colorado and played baseball for pay, so I could come here and bring him with me. That's why I can out-bat our team, and could win dead easy for Sunrise tomorrow. Nobody in Kansas knows it. Now, what shall I do?”
The words were shot out like bullets.