Neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent's line. Parkinson had made two first downs and Kenwood one. At punting Kenwood had outdistanced the Brown by some five yards on each kick, but had not gained any advantage by it, since Stearns and Norris were playing the game of their lives. In short, it was still anybody's game. During half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the contest going to Parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers and the possession of a brass band. It was about the middle of that fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the Kenwood stand. "Mr. Cooke!" he droned. "Message for Mr. Cooke!"
In response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on the nearly deserted players' bench. "All right, kid!" he called. "Here I am! Let's have it!"
"You Mr. Cooke?" asked the boy suspiciously.
"Yeah, that's right: A. M. Cooke. Well, you're wanted at the telephone."
"Where is it?" asked Cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. The boy waved a thumb over his shoulder.
"Out there," he said vaguely. "I'll show you."
Cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance. At the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. "Let me have a check, will you?" he asked. "I'm coming back."
The boy presiding at the box smiled mysteriously. "That'll be all right," he said. "You won't need any check."
Afterwards, Cooke concluded that it was at that moment that suspicion began to creep in. But the messenger led on and he followed around the back of the stand and into the presence of four grim-looking and extremely athletic first class fellows. Cooke saw no telephone, and a frown gathered on his classic brow. The messenger was speaking. "Here he is," he said. "I got him. Where's me half?"
A coin changed hands. Cooke looked on curiously, a question trembling on his lips. But he didn't need to ask that question. Suddenly the four youths encompassed him closely and he felt no further interest in telephones.
"Is your name Cooke?" asked the spokesman.
Cooke wanted very much to deny it, but knew that denial would be futile. So he said yes, and the other went on as follows: