Speed recalled.

"Sure--he's got to keep his discipline up," rejoined Phil, sliding behind the wheel and working the starter. "What's the matter with this thing? Have I flooded the carburetor?"

The engine had refused to respond.

"That's probably what's the trouble," diagnosed Milt. "Turn off your gas entirely."

"Good grief!" groaned Speed, "Get going, you guys! I don't want to be any later than I have to!"

"Keep your shirt on!" soothed Milt. "There she spits! She'll catch hold in a minute. This little old bus hasn't failed us yet."

Another valuable minute shot past ... and another.

"Say--there goes the interurban!" said Medford's star halfback, nervously. "It makes Medford by ten-thirty. I'd better catch it!"

"Don't be foolish!" cried Milt, grabbing Speed and holding him in the car. "We'll be back in Medford before that traction! It's a concrete road most all the way!"

"Here we go!" announced Phil as the engine finally took hold.

"Now--just as soon as we get beyond 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.

"Pa.s.s 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, we'll explain to the Coach! Have a chocolate bar--there's one in my coat in the car."

"I can't eat anything," was Speed's glum rejoinder. "My stomach's on the blink."

A flashing headlight suddenly appeared from around a curve in the road.

"Heigho!" exclaimed Phil. "Here comes the interurban!"

"Quick--your flashlight!" cried Speed, with sudden resolution. "I'll flag it!"

Medford's football star dashed forward but Milt fumbled the flashlight in handing it over and by the time Speed got hold of it the interurban was whizzing past.

"I knew I ought to have gone home by traction!" he lamented, loudly.

"Something told me not to go back with you guys! This is terrible!"

"Listen, Speed--you're getting all worked up over this," consoled Milt.

"You crawl in the car there and curl up on the seat and get your sleep.

That's why the Coach wants you to turn in at ten--so you'll get the right amount of sleep. If he should find out about this, we'll tell him you got your sleep just the same!"

"Sleep?" bellowed a greatly aggravated! Speed. "I haven't slept for four nights as it is! How can I sleep now?"

"Hey, Phil!" cried Milt, insinuatingly. "I'll fix this bird. Where's the monkey wrench?"

It was a quarter to one o'clock before a familiar looking runabout appeared in front of the MacDaniel Dormitory and the door popped open to let a highly exasperated and greatly worried athletic figure out.

There was not a sign of another soul upon the campus, nor was there a light visible save the flickering street lamps.

"Coast is clear!" whispered Milt. "Awfully sorry, old boy, but n.o.body will be any the wiser. You sneak in to your room and...!"

"h.e.l.lo, there!" sounded a voice. "Is that you, Speed?"

"Blue murder!" exclaimed an agonized fellow, under his breath, as he cringed against the side of the car. "That's Coach now!"

"It can't be!" said Phil, punching Milt knowingly with his elbow.