m had "slumped."

There are over three hundred thousand words in the English language, and
many of them are full of malignant meaning. Fever, pestilence, battle,
blood, murder, death have an awful significance, but in the lexicon of
the coach and trainer of a college team the most baleful word is
"slump."

This plague had struck the Blues and struck them hard. It was a silent
panic, a brooding fear, an inability of mind and muscle to work
together. There was but one remedy, and "Bull" Hendricks knew it.

The next day a dozen telegrams whizzed over the wires. They went to
every quarter of the continent, from Maine to Texas, from the Lakes to
the Gulf. And the burden of all was the same:

"Team gone to pieces. Drop everything. Come."

If one had looked over the shoulder of the telegraph operator, he would
have seen that every address was that of some man who in his time had
been famous the country over for his prowess on the gridiron, and who on
many a glorious field had worn the colors of the Blues.

One of them was delivered in the private office of a great business
concern in Chicago. Mr. Thomas Ames, the president--better known in
earlier and less dignified days as "Butch"--turned from the mass of
papers on his desk and opened it. His eyes lighted up as he read it and
saw the signature. Then the light faded.

"Swell chance," he muttered, "with this big deal on."

He turned reluctantly to his desk. Then he read the telegram again. Then
he sighed and bit viciously at the end of his cigar.

"Nonsense," he growled. "There's no use being a fool. I simply can't,
and that's all there is to it."

He crushed the telegram in his hand and threw it into the waste basket.

Ten minutes later he fished it out. He smoothed out the wrinkles and
smiled as he noted the imperious form of the message. He was more
accustomed to giving orders than obeying them, and the change had in it
something piquant.

"Just like 'Bull,'" he grinned. "Arrogant old rascal. Doesn't even ask
me. Just says 'come.'"

"Off his trolley this time though," he frowned. "Nothing doing."

The pile of letters on his desk remained unanswered. His stenographer
waited silently. He waved her away, and she went out, closing the door
behind her. He lay back in his chair, toying idly with the telegram.

The memory of the old days at college was strong upon him. A few minutes
ago, engrossed in the details of a large and exacting business, nothing