“Yes, I know it,” replied Clint.

“That’s what I heard,” persisted Clint.

struggling over
“Did it ever have any?” asked Clint, folding the letter he had been
struggling over.

him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for
practice
But two days after the Miter Hill game an incident occurred which proved
him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for
practice. That morning’s Greek had gone unusually badly for Clint and
Mr. Simkins had kept him after class and talked some plain talk to him.
When Clint’s final recitation of the day was over at three he was
out-of-sorts and depressed. He felt very little like playing football
and still less like studying, but Mr. Simkins had as much as told him
that unless a decided improvement was at once apparent some direful fate
would be his, and the instructor had a convincing way of talking and
Clint quite believed him. Consequently, of two evils Clint chose the
more necessary and dedicated that afternoon to the Iliad. The dormitory
was very quiet, for it was a fine, mild day and most of the fellows were
out-of-doors, and concentration should have been easy. But it wasn’t.
Clint couldn’t keep his mind on his book, try as he might. Through the
open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field; shouts, the
honking of Manager Black’s horn, the cries of the coaches and players,
the crack of bat and ball where the Nine was holding Fall practice;
even, now and then, the voices of the tennis players far down the field.
He tried closing the window, but that made the room hot and stuffy, and
he opened it again. Four o’clock sounded and he was still dawdling. Then
footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door of Number 13 opened and shut,
and a minute or two later the wailing of Penny Durkin’s violin broke
onto the silence of the deserted dormitory. That ought to have ended
Clint’s chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had
listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of
him and then–well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was
silent and someone was knocking on his door!

The boys nodded not over-enthusiastically and accompanied the officer.
The police station was but a half-block distant on a side street and
their captor ushered them up the steps and into a room where a tall,
bushy-whiskered man with much gold on his shoulders sat writing at a
flat-topped desk.

“I did, Dreer!” Amy shook his head gently. “Think again. Surely, I
didn’t do that?”

“Do, eh? That’s good. Football at Brimfield didn’t amount to a great
deal when I was here, but the old school’s turned out some good elevens
since then. Well, I’m glad to have met you chaps. Some day when you’ve
got nothing better to do look me up in the village. I’m at Storer’s, a
little white house opposite the store and post office. Awfully glad to
have you. And–er–by the way, if you need evidence, Byrd, in this
little matter, call on me. Very glad to testify to the best of my
knowledge. Good-bye.”

They turned in the first entrance of Hensey and climbed the stairs.
Innes’s room, like Clint’s, faced the stair-well, being also Number 14,
and from behind the closed door came a babel of voices.