“It’s extremely low-bridge,” replied The Duke disapprovingly. “Quite reprehensible, whatever that may be. Also, fellows, if anything should happen to him he’d have only himself to thank.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” asked Gerald, eyeing The Duke with suspicion. The Duke only smiled carelessly.
“Why ask me? I don’t say anything is going to happen. I only say if anything should happen——”
“Oh,” murmured Davis disappointedly, “I thought perhaps you had a plan to get rid of him.”
The Duke viewed him reprovingly. “Perky, if you want anyone put out of the way you must do it yourself. I refuse to stain my hands with the life blood of even a Broadwood fellow. I’m that particular!”
“Well, I hope he enjoys himself,” muttered the manager. “He won’t learn much, anyway.” He nodded and hurried off, drawing his note-book and pencil into sight. The Duke quietly beckoned Gerald and Harry toward the entrance. Outside the three stood for several minutes with their heads together. When they ambled carelessly back their countenances were as innocent of guile as the faces of three babies. Only there was a suspicious twinkle in The Duke’s eyes.
The grand stand being filled, the three found a space on the grass near the rope and watched the two teams take their positions. It was a clear, nippy Fall day, with a brisk northwest breeze quartering across the field and streamers of white clouds scudding by overhead. Forest Hill had won the toss and chosen the north goal. The whistle blew and Fales kicked off.