The Team That Couldn't Lose (4 page)

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.”

I
t 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.”

C
hip 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!”

And then he looked around, his eyes suddenly filled with horror. “My notebook!” he cried. “Where’s my notebook?”

“Is that it?” Chip said, pointing. It was about two feet from where Danny had been trapped. One of the men got a long branch
and poked the notebook up onto the ground. Chip started for it, but Danny bounded ahead of him, his legs covered with mud.

“I’ll get it!” he said.