“No, sir, it didn’t. He seemed such a—a decent sort, Mr. Driscoll!”
“Let’s get this right,” said Jud impatiently. “Tell us again just what you told him, as near as you can remember.”
Myron did so. His recollection of the two conversations was none too clear, however, and he faltered several times.
“And then he brought in the subject of signals?” prompted the coach. “Can you remember what you told him then?”
“I don’t think I told him anything of—of consequence,” answered Myron. “He said he thought that simple signals were best and told a lot of stories about games where the players had got the signals wrong because they were too complicated. And he told about some team a long while ago where they used to use words instead of numbers. I said our signals were simple enough, and he said he supposed we numbered the openings and the players from right to left; or maybe he said left to right. And I told him we didn’t; that we began at the ends and numbered in; and then Eddie Moses stopped the cab quick and threw us off the seat.”
“Eddie appears to deserve a medal and resolutions of thanks,” observed the coach drily. “You’re quite certain that was all you told him, Foster? It was at the point you speak of that the jolt came?”
“Yes, sir. I think I had started to say something else, but I didn’t have time.”
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Myron looked about the circle of troubled faces and wished himself at the bottom of the ocean. At last Chas spoke. “Well, say, folks, I don’t see that there’s been much harm done. Foster didn’t tell that fox anything Kenwood didn’t know already, I guess, except about the signals. They’ve seen us play all fall and know just about as much about our players and the way they play as we do.”
“That’s so,” murmured Farnsworth. “They had three scouts at the Chancellor game.”
“What about the signals, though?” asked Mr. Driscoll, frowning. “How much could Cooke make of what Foster so kindly informed him?”