n," spoke Coach Brock. "But I am addressing this appeal to
Speed Bartlett with the hope that he may be within the reach of my
voice. I herewith apologize to him. Further ... er ... facts have
just come to light in regard to his violation of the rules and were he
here in Medford today he would be offered his place in the line-up. It
is self-evident that Medford needs him...!"

A certain young man, standing in front of a radio store in Ashby,
waited to hear no more. He rushed over to a taxi stand at the curb and
hailed a driver who had been listening in on the game.

"What'll you charge to take me to Medford?"

The taxi driver almost fell from his seat.

"That's a fifteen dollar ride, son!"

"Okay!" accepted Speed, "And there's an extra five in it for you if you
break all records getting there!"

"Have you got that much money?" asked the driver, incredulously.

"No," answered Speed, truthfully. "But Coach Brock has...!"

"Oh--be you Speed Bartlett?" exclaimed the driver, starting his car.
"Suffering cats, boy! Then I'm gonna turn this old bus into a flyin'
machine!"

"Good!" cried Speed, jumping in. "Oh--wait a second! I want to run in
this telegraph office!"

A messenger boy, twenty minutes later, with the third quarter about
four minutes under way, reached Coach Brock's side. The coach was
intent upon the game inasmuch as his team was being pushed once more
into the shadow of its own goal posts. Hardly realizing what he was
doing, he took the yellow envelope and thrust it in a side pocket.

"Hey, Coach!" cried a substitute, grabbing his mentor by the arm.
"That was a telegram!"

"Read it to me!" snapped Coach Brock, handing the wire over and not
taking his eyes off the field.

The sub slit the envelope open and gazed at the message in bewilderment.

"Why--why--this is funny!" he exclaimed. "There's no name signed or
anything--just one word...!"

"What is it?" asked the Coach. "Hold 'em out there! What's the matter
with you fellows? Gordon, go in for Ochs at left tackle!... What did
you say that one word was...?"

"The word is '_coming_'!" announced the substitute.

Coach Brock whirled, interest quickening, and seized the yellow piece
of paper.

"_Coming?_" he repeated. "Coming?... By George--this is from that
goofy Speed Bartlett!... Jerry, you go in for Maltby at right guard.
Get Pete to take a time-out and tell the team that Speed's on the way
here. Tell those guys to buck up