“Do you think the other fellow was Throgmorton, Stick?”
“Sure! Why not? Billy was mad because he couldn’t get my share in the business and he made up his mind to get square. Throgmorton’s a chunk of cheese, if you ask me, and Billy probably made him think it was just a sort of lark. Well, Crocker got a crack on the head and a couple of hours in jail, and he ought to be satisfied!” Stick’s expression became more mollified. “I guess we might as well be satisfied, too, Rus. The laugh’s on our side, all right. Billy’s in bad with faculty, you see, and out of football— Gee, that reminds me!”
Stick stepped to the table and rummaged amongst the litter.
“Out of football!” exclaimed Russell. “Gee, that’s tough, Stick!”
“Tough?” Stick laughed unfeelingly. “I don’t see it. Where the dickens is that— Oh, here it is! That crazy guy Johnson left this a few minutes ago.”
Russell took the folded sheet of paper and read the hastily scrawled words amazedly.
“Emerson: Report at training table at twelve-thirty. Hy. Johnson, Mgr.”