Chip grinned. “No, it isn’t, Mr. McKane.” Then he explained about the new plays Phil had taught them and about the plays’ helping the Cayugans win all of their games.
“We just want to know if you gave Phil those plays,” said Chip. “He wouldn’t say anything about them. And Jasper McFall said that his high school team had used them sixty years ago.”
“Sixty years ago? And who’s Jasper McFall?”
“An old guy who comes to all our football games,” answered Chip. “He said that he used to play in the backfield for the high school.”
Mr. McKane picked up a pencil and began tapping it against the desk. “No, I’m sorry, Chip. I’m not the one who’s given any plays to your coach. Fact is, I don’t even know Phil Wayne.”
“Well . . . okay. Thanks, Mr. McKane.”
The boys got up to leave. Mr. McKane swung around in his swivel chair. “Have you asked Bart Franks? He played football in college. Maybe he’s the one.”
“I don’t think it would be him,” said Splash. “His kid plays with the Stingrays.”
Mr. McKane chuckled. “In that case, you’re right. I don’t think it’d be him, either.” He rose from the chair and walked out into the hall with the boys. “Probably it wouldn’t be anyone who went to college in recent years, anyway. If this Jasper McFall says his team used those plays sixty years ago, then it’s probably someone who played on the team then. But what if someone did give the plays to your coach? Why should anyone care? There’s nothing wrong in using old football plays.”
Chip shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter, I guess. It’s just that Jasper McFall was so concerned about it. And why does Phil have to be so mysterious about it?”
“You have a point there. Maybe Phil has a good reason why he doesn’t want anyone to know where he gets the plays. And you say he’s been using a new one every week?”
“Yes. He might teach us a new one at our practice tonight, too. If he has a new one.”
“Hmm, sounds interesting. Let me know how everything comes out.”
“Sure will,” said Chip.
Sure enough, Phil Wayne had a new play that evening. He called it Play Four. He explained it to the boys and Mr. Quigley, then the coaches helped the team work it. It was another clever play that was supposed to result in a touchdown if it went off right.
Of course nearly all plays are supposed to result in touchdowns, Phil Wayne reminded the boys. But these were special plays. He wanted the Cayugans to use a different one each week so that the opposing team would be caught completely off guard. They would continue using the new plays in each game, plus those Mr. Kash had taught them.
After practice, Chip and Danny were helping Phil with the equipment when a man came hobbling across the field. It was Jasper McFall again.
“Phil!” Jasper yelled before he was within twenty feet of the coach. “That’s another play we used sixty years ago. Now don’t tell me you dreamed that one up!”
A grin flickered on Phil’s lips, then died. “Okay, I suppose I have to confess sooner or later,” he said. “Someone’s been sending me those plays through the mail, Jasper.”
Jasper McFall’s eyes gazed steadily on the coach’s as if he didn’t dare blink for fear Phil Wayne would vanish from his sight. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” said Phil honestly.
“Horsefeathers!” Jasper McFall snorted. “Somebody who played with me during those days is giving you those plays. Now, who is it? Sakes alive, man, what harm is there in telling me? I just want to know, that’s all. How about it, Mr. Quigley?”
“I don’t know any more about it than Phil does,” replied Mr. Quigley.
“I told you,” said Phil seriously, “I don’t know. Whoever sends those play patterns to me never signs his name.”
“Blah!” Jasper McFall snorted again. “Young men nowadays are just too smart for their own good. Won’t give you a decent answer.” He stalked away angrily, grumbling under his breath.
Chip approached Phil. “Coach, is it really true that someone’s been sending you the plays through the mail?”
Phil looked around cautiously. “You and Danny stick around until the others leave,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you about it then.”
“Can you tell Splash, too?” asked Chip. “He can keep a secret.”
Phil considered it a moment. “Well, guess it won’t hurt for Splash to know.”
After all the other guys had gone, Phil repeated what he had said before. He had received the plays through the mail from someone who didn’t sign his name. When the first play had come to him, he didn’t know whether he should use it or not, since he didn’t know who had sent it, or whether the play would help the Cayugans. His frank opinion was that since the Cayugans looked so poor in practice and since both he and Mr. Quigley were poor coaches, nothing they did would help them score touchdowns, let alone win games.
Then he discussed the strategy of Play One with Mr. Quigley, and they decided to teach it to the team. That was all they would have the team do for the whole week: learn the play until they had it down pat. If they won, fine. They would use it again the next week.
But what happened? A new play came to him through the mail! The first play had been a success, so Phil figured that the new one might be, too.
That was why they had kept using a new play every week. And each one had been working out perfectly.
“When do you get these plays?” Chip asked curiously.
“Every Monday,” said Phil. “And I notice that each time the envelope is stamped twelve P.M. Saturday.”
“What kind of paper are the plays drawn on?”
“Looks like ordinary computer paper to me,” answered Phil.
Chip’s eyes widened. “Ordinary computer paper?”
“Yup.”
Chip’s brows wrinkled in thought. “If there were only a way to catch the person when he mails the letter,” he said.
“Maybe we can watch the mailboxes and the post office,” said Splash. “Catch the person red-handed.”
“Hardly,” said Phil. “Too many people in town we don’t know.”
Then how can we find out who the person is? thought Chip. There was no way. None at all.
The Cayugans played the Stingrays that Saturday afternoon. It looked as if it was another game the Cayugans had no chance of winning. Quarterback Jack Stone for the Stingrays called play after play that gained a yard or two, sometimes five or ten. Once Jim Randall, their hot fullback, carried the ball for seventy-six yards for a touchdown.
Yet, when the game was over, the Cayugans were the winners. In the scorebook, the Stingrays had gained three times as many yards on runs and passes as the Cayugans had. But in the scoring column, it was the Cayugans who fared better, 18-14.
And it was the new play, Play Four, that had helped the Cayugans win.
On Monday, just before practice, Phil and Mr. Quigley were standing at the sidelines looking at a sheet of paper in Phil’s hand. Phil motioned Chip and Danny over. “I received a new play again today,” he said. “And the letter was stamped twelve o’clock Saturday.”
8
It was another complicated play.
“I’m not sure whether we ought to keep learning these new plays,” Phil said to Mr. Quigley undecidedly. “It bothers me to teach them and not know who’s sending them.”
Mr. Quigley shrugged. “Well, we’re winning, aren’t we?” he said, and chuckled.
“Sure,” said Chip. “And as long as someone sends us the plays and we can learn them, let’s use them.”
Danny grinned. “That’s the way I’d feel about it too,” he said. “If somebody wants to help us, good for him!”
Halfway through their practice session, Chip looked over to the sidelines for Jasper McFall. The grumpy old man wasn’t around.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. After practice, while Chip and Splash were walking home together, Chip explained what he had in mind. “If Mr. McFall remembers those plays,
maybe it’s someone who played with him who’s sending them to us. If he can remember those plays, he should remember who played with him, shouldn’t he?”
“He should,” agreed Splash.
They found Jasper McFall raking up leaves in his backyard.
“Well, well, look who’s here!” the old man said. His eyes bounced from one boy to the other like Ping-Pong balls. “The Cayugan champions. The worst team in the league and winning all the games. I’ve never seen the likes of it in my seventy-five years. Come to help me rake up the leaves, did you?”
Chip smiled nervously. “We could, if you’d like,” he said. “But we came for something else, Mr. McFall.”
“I figured you did.” A crooked smile broke over Mr. McFall’s weathered face. “Something about those new plays?”
“Yes. We’re trying to find out who’s sending them to us. Since you said it’s not you, we think it could be someone who played on the high school team when you did. Can you remember the names of the guys you played with, Mr. McFall?”
“Well, now, let me think.” Mr. McFall scratched the stubble of beard on his chin. “Got a good memory, should be able to. The two halfbacks were Ken Strong and Mike Podack. Fullback was . . . let’s see . . . Galloping Jim Fox.”
Chip’s eyes brightened. “Just a minute, Mr. McFall. Can you get a pencil and paper and write those names down for us?”
“Sure can,” said Mr. McFall. Then he yelled toward the house, “Minnie! Bring out a paper and pencil!”
A moment later the back door opened and a woman wearing a blue apron over a yellow dress poked her head out. “What’re you yelling your head off about, Jasper?”
“Bring me a paper and pencil!” Mr. McFall yelled again. “Us men’ve got something real important to talk about.”
She disappeared into the house and returned with paper and pencil, grumbling about why didn’t he go after them himself. While Mr. McFall named his football teammates, Chip wrote their names and the positions they had played. Mr. McFall named only those who had played regularly. There were a few, he admitted, whose names he couldn’t remember.
The name of one player started Chip thinking. That was Oswald Kash, Coach Kash’s father. He had played quarterback. Chip could hardly control his excitement as he thanked Mr. McFall and took off with Splash.
“I think we’ve got the answer, Splash,” he said. “Remember what Phil said about the paper looking like ordinary computer paper? Bet it comes from Mr. Kash’s company! Bet it’s him who’s been sending Phil the plays. He must’ve gotten them from his father.”
“Why would he send them to him?”
“Because he wants him to have a winning team.”
“How can we prove it was him?”
“We’ll have to make him confess,” Chip said.
“Confess? How are we going to make him do that?”
“Simple,” said Chip. A smile broadened on his face. “I’ll just call and ask him! But I think we’ve got this thing solved.”
9
Chip and Splash hurried to Chip’s house. Chip found Coach Kash’s number and quickly dialed it. Coach Kash answered after two rings.
“This is Chip Chase,” Chip said, hoping his voice wasn’t wavering.
“Chip! This is a surprise. I’ve been following the team’s record in the town’s newspaper. Sounds like Phil Wayne has really honed your skills in the past weeks. He must have some secret weapon I didn’t.”
Chip cleared his throat. “Well, that’s what I’m calling about, sir,” he said. “Coach, someone is sending Phil plays in the mail every week. But he doesn’t know who it is.”
“Well, Chip, I’m sorry not to be able to help you, but it’s not me.” Chip could hear the surprise in Coach Kash’s voice. “I’ve been keeping up with the team, but that’s all I’ve had time for since starting this new job.”
Chip was crestfallen. “Oh. Well, thanks.”
“Just out of curiosity, why did you think it was me?”
Chip explained about the connection between Oswald Kash and Jasper McFall. Mr. Kash chuckled. “Ah, yes. I often wondered if Mr. McFall was coming to our games to watch you kids play — or to watch me coach so he could report back to Dad.”
Chip suddenly had another idea. “Mr. Kash, do you think your dad could be the one sending in the plays?”
Mr. Kash was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’d be surprised if he was. I mean, why would he send them to a man he doesn’t know and not to me, his own son, when I was coaching? But let me ask you this: What makes you so sure it’s not Jasper McFall? He could be telling you it isn’t him just to send up a smoke screen.”
Chip hung up and turned to Splash with a thoughtful look.
“What?” Splash asked impatiently.
Chip told him what Mr. Kash had said about the smoke screen. Splash just shook his head. “It wouldn’t make sense, would it? Why would the guy go to so much trouble? Why not just suggest the plays to Phil instead?”
Chip shrugged. “Maybe he thought Phil wouldn’t use them. I mean they’re sixty years old, after all.”
Splash looked unconvinced. “A play’s a play, no matter how old it is,” he said. “Our winning streak proves that.”
“True.” Chip slumped into a chair. Then suddenly he sat upright. “I know someone who might be able to help us figure this out. Who claims to know Phil Wayne better than anyone else on the team?”
With a snap of his fingers, Splash answered, “Danny Livermore! You’re right! If he can’t figure out this puzzle, no one can. Let’s go.”
The two boys hurried to Danny’s house. They weren’t the only ones there, though. To their amazement, there was a police car with its lights flashing parked in the driveway. Luther Otis was there, too. When he saw Chip and Splash, he hurried over.
“Danny’s lost in the swamp!” he cried. “We were out there collecting leaves and stuff for our science project. Danny was going to show me how to set up something on my computer so my project would look really good. We got separated, and when I tried to find him, I couldn’t!”
Just then the police officer called over to them: “We have a search party ready to go look. We’ll need you to come with us, Luther, to show us where you last saw him.”
“Can we come, too?” Chip asked. “He’s our team manager, and we’d like to help find him!”
The officer studied them, glanced at the sky, then nodded. “It’s still early enough so it won’t get dark. Just stick together when you’re out there, and always keep an adult in sight. One lost boy is enough for one day.”
Chip, Splash, Luther, and Mr. and Mrs. Livermore piled into the Livermores’ car. They followed the police car out to the conservation area parking lot. The swamp was deep inside the park’s boundaries. A crew of other people, mostly adults, was already there. At a word from the police officer, they set out to search for Danny.
Luther took the lead through the tangled brush. Over their heads loomed giant trees, their brown and yellow leaves whispering in the gently blowing breeze. Birds scurried from branches with a wild flutter of wings. The searchers ran on, now and then their clothing snagging or their arms being scratched by the barbs of a bush.
Danny’s been out here a long time! Chip’s mind screamed. Maybe we’ll be too late!
Presently Luther slowed his pace, paused, and stared around in confusion.
“What’s the matter, Luther?” Chip cried. “You didn’t forget where you last saw him, did you?”
“I — I thought it was near here,” murmured Luther, his face as pale as one of the yellow leaves.
Chip forgot that Danny had ever bothered him. He hated thinking of the little guy being stuck out here, scared and alone for hours. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Danny!” he yelled.
The last whisper of sound died behind them as the searchers stopped in their tracks. They listened silently for an answer. All they heard was the soft mocking murmur of the leaves.
A lump lodged in Chip’s
throat. Danny Livermore was an egghead, but he wasn’t a bad kid. He wasn’t a bad kid at all.
“Danny!” Chip yelled again. “Danny, yell out if you hear me!”
And then, from somewhere to their left they heard a voice! “He . . . re! He . . . re!”
A cry burst from Chip’s throat. He plunged through the woods, ignoring the barbs that clawed at him. He knew, as many others did, about the patches of swampland. It was especially soft and dangerous after a heavy rain. Here and there, signs that read BEWARE: SWAMP had been tacked onto trees. The signs were many years old, torn and ugly from the battering of rain, sleet, and snow. Was it because of their age that they had sometimes been ignored — as Danny may have ignored them?
Stumbling over a log, Chip went sprawling on his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, ran on, the leaves wet and soggy under his feet. He came upon a mammoth tree.
“The other side of that tree!” Luther cried. “I remember now!”
Chip led the way around it. Just ahead was a small clearing. Practically in the middle of it was Danny, buried in some kind of mud right up to his knees! He was clinging to a small branch of a tree. It had split where it was joined to a trunk.
“Did you bring a rope?” Chip’s eyes were wide with concern.
“No. Didn’t think of it,” one of the men answered.
“Can we use our belts?”
“Guess we’ll have to,” the man said.
He took off his belt, and Chip started to take his off, but another man offered his belt first. It was longer and stronger, he said.
The men linked the two belts together and tossed one end to Danny. Danny caught it.
“Hold on tight!” one of the men said. “We’ll pull you out!”
Danny’s face was strained as he clung hard to the belt. The men pulled. Gradually Danny came oozing out of the mire. Chip and one of the men helped him onto solid ground. His clothes were a mess.
“Thanks!” he said, panting hard. “Thanks a million!”
The Team That Couldn't Lose Page 3