The Duke, stealing softly down the corridor, heard no more. At the doorway he cast a fleeting glance back at the booth. Then he slipped from sight. Halfway back to the field he paused and did an erratic breakdown, with much snapping of fingers and many loud chuckles. Then, pulling his features back into their former innocence of expression, he went on. He reached the gridiron at an exciting moment and had seated himself between Gerald and Harry before his fellow-conspirators realized his return. Then,
“All right?” whispered Gerald.
The Duke, supremely interested in the game, closed one eye slowly and portentously. Gerald grinned. Harry hugged a foot ecstatically. “Like a sheep to the slaughter,” whispered The Duke gloatingly. “Oh, what do you suppose he’s saying to Central?”
“How long will he stay there?” asked Harry.
“Until he gets out. There’s no one in the Office on Saturday afternoons. Anyway, they couldn’t hear him—unless he broke a window and yelled like sixty. Did you tell Perky?”
“Yes, and they’ve worked a couple of the new plays already.”
“Tried to, you mean,” corrected Harry gloomily. “They didn’t gain much.”
“Anyone scored?” asked The Duke.
“Not yet. No one’s had a chance. Kendall tried a placement from the forty-five yards and missed by a yard. Too bad. He had the wind with him, too.”