Mr. Cade slapped the knee under his hand and sat back with a laugh. “Todd, you’re hopeless,” he said. “You’ve got a bad case of ingrowing modesty; what the psychologists call an inferiority complex, I suppose. But never mind. You start in to-morrow and show me that you mean business, and about the middle of the week I’ll tell you what I want you to do to help win the Kenly game. The best thing about it, too, is that you can do it—if you will.”
“I’ll try mighty hard— Gee, that’s ten o’clock.” At sound of the strokes Jim jumped to his feet in dismay. “I’ll get the dickens for being out of hall!”
“Perhaps I can fix that. Who’s in charge of your hall?”
“Mr. Tarbot.”
The coach rummaged about the table and finally uncovered a writing pad. When the four lines were finished he tore off the sheet and handed it to Jim. “I fancy that will pacify him,” he said.
“Dear Mr. Tarbot: (Jim read) This is my fault. Todd has been detained by me at my room on a matter concerning the football team. Inter arma silent leges! Cordially, John Cade.” Jim grinned as he folded the paper once and thrust it into a pocket.
“Thank you, sir,” he said gratefully. “I guess that will fix him.”
“I hope so. Thanks for coming over, Todd, and— Wait just a minute. Stand where you are, please, and put your hand up. Away up. That’s it. Fine!” Mr. Cade stared across the room a moment while Jim, perplexed, stood by the door with one hand—that, as it chanced, of which two fingers were bound with an already soiled white bandage—extended almost to the ceiling. Then: “All right, Todd. Much obliged. Good night!”
“Now,” Jim asked himself as he let himself out and took long strides across Academy street, “I wonder what that was for!”
Mr. Tarbot, looking as Jim thought a whole lot like a spider awaiting the unsuspecting fly, sat in view of the corridor as Jim entered the dormitory.