But there was no more to be told
than Dick Prescott already knew.
"I'm tremendously sorry about that envelope," protested Jarvis.
"I'd give anything to be able to hand that envelope over to you,
but I'm afraid I'll never see it again."
"We appreciate your anxiety to help, Mr. Jarvis, as deeply as
we appreciate your manliness in coming to us without an instant's
delay," replied Mr. Morton, earnestly.
At this moment the office boy entered with the mail sack.
"Mr. Pollock!" he bellowed, tossing the sack down on the editor's
desk. Then the office boy hurried to the rear of the building,
intent on other duties.
Mr. Pollock returned to his desk, opening the mail. The football
folks in the further corner lowered their voices almost to whispers.
"Letter for you, Dick," called Mr. Pollock, tossing aside an envelope.
Excusing himself, Dick darted over to get his mail. In an instant
he came back, with a flushed face.
"Here's something that may interest you all," whispered Dick,
shaking as though fever had seized him.
Mr. Morton took the sheet of paper, from which he read:
_"Dear Old Gridleyites: If the enclosed is a fake, it won't work.
If there's really a traitor in your camp you ought to know it.
Milton High School doesn't take any games except by the use of
its own fair fighting devices.
Decker, Captain,
Milton High School
Football Team."_
"And here's a duplicate set of our signals, returned by our Milton
friends," went on Dick, with almost a sob in his voice.
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