"Well, we ought to," declared Dan.
"Don't be so sure," retorted Mr. Lighton; "they have a pretty good team."
"Ours is improving," asserted Kindlings, proudly, and, in a measure, this was so, though there were still some weak places in the line.
It was within two days of the Canton game, and the boys were working eagerly to get the stand in shape. They had put in several nights on it, laboring in shifts, by the light of some flaming arc lamps rigged up by the college electrician.
Tom, in virtue of his position as foreman, was going about and doing as much as he could, when, as he passed near Phil, who was nailing down some of the seats, the quarter-back called to his chum:
"I say, Tom, when you have a chance just take a stroll over where that Lenton chap is working."
"You mean Henry Lenton—the freshman?"
"Yes, the chap who flocks by himself so much, and always seems to be tinkering with something in his room. See what he's doing?"
"Why; is he doing it wrong?"
"No, but you remember the queer key we found in our door that night?"
"Sure."
"Well, just think of that when you see what Lenton is doing."
Wondering what motive Phil could have, Tom
