“Well, that’s about all there is to tell, except that presently Sandy called out that they were starting the game and I came over and looked out over his shoulder and saw that he was telling the truth. ‘Funny Harold doesn’t show up,’ I said, as concerned as anything. So I opened the door and looked up and down the corridor and there wasn’t anyone in sight and the building was awfully silent. ‘Guess I’ll go down to the entrance, Sandy,’ I said, ‘and see if I can see him. You sit tight.’ So Sandy said all right, he would, and that Phillipsburg had just kicked-off, and I went out and closed the door gently but firmly behind me, absent-mindedly turning the key in the lock, and went downstairs. Harold wasn’t in sight and so I went on around to the field.”
“You locked Sandy in there?” exclaimed Stanley incredulously and joyfully. Rusty grinned and nodded.
“I guess so. I didn’t try the door, but the key turned all right.”
The others were fairly howling. “Wouldn’t I like to have been there when the owner of the room got back!” gasped Blash. “What do you suppose Sandy told him?”
“He told him the truth,” laughed Rusty, “but I don’t believe Summer believed him.”
“Summer? Not that big left-guard of theirs?” cried Stanley.
“Yes, Harold Summer.”
“Then—then you do know him?”
“Only by reputation,” replied Rusty modestly. “I’ve never had the honour of meeting him.”