yond the city limits...!"

At ten o'clock, when all good little football players were supposed to
be tucked in their beds or, at least, safe in their rooms, a runabout
containing the outstanding star of Medford's eleven was whizzing along
the highway with the indicator wavering between fifty and fifty five
miles an hour.

"Nine miles in fifteen minutes!" figured Phil, eyes intent on the road
ahead. "At that rate we'll be in Medford around ten-sixteen. You
don't see that interurban do you?"

"It's just about leaving Ashby now!" grinned Milt. "How's this for
traveling, Speed? This is just a little faster than you go down the
field. Say--what did you think of that Rockne picture anyhow? Pick up
any pointers?"

"Very interesting," admitted Speed. "But what's that I hear--is it a
knock in the motor?"

"Careful, Phil!" warned Milt. "The old engine's getting too hot again.
Better slow up!"

"What's the matter?" asked Speed, anxiously.

"Nothing much," answered Milt, "Only we can't hit it up too fast for
too long a time. Might burn out a bearing or something!"

Phil reduced the speed from fifty to twenty miles an hour and still the
knocking persisted.

"Sounds like it's almost out of gas," said Speed. "It's commencing to
cough now!"

"Maybe it caught cold standing out there to-night," suggested Milt.
"It _is_ acting strangely. Wouldn't you say so, Phil?"

"Something's gone wrong," was Phil's grave comment. "I think there's
some foreign substance clogging the carburetor!"

Pulling to the side of the road, Phil stopped the car.

"Now what?" gasped Speed, glancing at his watch.

"Have to take a look," said Phil, getting out and raising the hood.
"Pass out the flashlight, Milt!"

"Which seat is it under?" asked the confederate in the dire conspiracy.

"How do I know?" was Phil's rejoinder.

A half hour of tinkering with the engine followed, during which an
agitated Speed Bartlett paced up and down the highway, returning every
few minutes to inquire the progress made.

"We can't even get the engine started now," was Milt's cheerful report.
"It's a good thing we stopped when he did!"

"That's where you made your mistake," said Speed, irritably. "You
never should have stopped!"

"No!" retorted Phil, caustically. "You should burn out a bearing on
_your_ car!"

"I haven't any car!" replied Speed, sharply.

"That's just the point!" returned Milt, smothering a chuckle. "But,
don't worry, Speed,