# The Winning Touchdown/Chapter 33
#### CHAPTER XXXIII
##### A GREAT FIND

The quarter-back let himself down critically and easily into the chair. He was not in it more than a few seconds, ere he arose quickly.
"It seems to fit, just as our chair did," he said, with a puzzled air. "I can't tell——"
"It's not our chair," insisted Tom. "Of course when you sit in it it doesn't feel any different. But look here!"
He tilted it over backwards with a sudden motion.
"What are you trying to do?" indignantly demanded Sid. "Break it?"
"I'm going to look under the seat," replied Tom. "Don't you remember how I nailed a board on last term to hold it together?"
"That's right," agreed Sid. "And I put on a cleat near the back legs. See if that's there, Tom."
Tom had the underside of the chair exposed to view now. Eagerly the lads peered forward. To ​their gaze was presented no indiscriminately-nailed-on boards or cleats, which they so well remembered. Instead, there was a smooth brown covering of cloth, such as is put under most upholstered chairs.
"What did I tell you?" cried Tom, in triumph. "I knew this wasn't our chair as soon as I sat in it and ran my hand under it. You could feel the board I put on, and when that was missing I knew something was wrong."
"You're right, old man!" exclaimed Phil. "But if this isn't our chair, we've got its twin brother. I never saw two more alike. But if it isn't ours, whose is it?"
"And where's yours?" asked Frank Simpson. "This mystery is only beginning, fellows."
"That dealer gave us the wrong chair," said Tom. "He must have another one in his shop."
"I don't believe so," declared Phil. "If he had had two he'd have mentioned it when we were out there. Besides, we would have seen it. Frank, are you sure this is the chair you saw in the shop window of that Yankee dealer?"
"No, I can't be sure of it, of course. It looks like it, though."
"Well, we certainly are up against it," declared Tom. "Wait a minute, I'll soon find out what it means."
He started from the room.
​"Where you going?" called Sid.
"I'm going to see Rosenkranz and ask him about this mix-up."
"It's too late," declared Phil. "Rosenkranz is quite a distance toward home by this time. We'll see him later—to-morrow, after the game. But it sure is a queer mix-up. Who'd ever suppose there was another chair like ours."
"This one is newer," announced Tom, who had turned it right side up again, and was critically examining it.
"Not newer, I guess," said Phil. "Only it hasn't had the usage ours got. This is evidently of the same vintage, but has been reposing in some one's back parlor for centuries, with the curtains down and the blinds closed to keep out the sun. But a fair exchange is no robbery, and I don't know but what we're just as well off. We have a better chair than ours."
"I'd rather have our own," declared Sid.
"So would I," added Tom. "It sat easier," and he dropped into the chair, and lolled back critically.
"Here, give me a show at it," begged Sid. "I haven't had my sitting yet."
Tom arose reluctantly, and, as he did so, there came a knock on the door.
"Come!" cried Phil.
It was Wallops, the messenger.
​"If you please," he said, "Captain Woodhouse wants you gentlemen to come out on the gridiorn at once, for practice."
"Of course!" cried Tom. "We were nearly forgetting that in the excitement over the chair. Tell the captain we'll be right out."
There was hard, snappy practice against the unfortunate scrub, and as it progressed the captain and coach looked more gratified than at any time that season.
"They're fit, all right," declare Kindlings, with sparkling eyes.
"I think they'll do," agreed Mr. Lighton, "but you've got the fight of your life ahead of you, old man.'
"I know it—but we'll win!"
Tom and his three chums returned from practice for a brief rest before the game. It was a holiday, with no lessons or lectures to mar the sport.
"First shot at the chair!" cried Tom, as he burst into the room. He threw himself into the big piece of upholstered furniture. There was a sudden cracking, breaking and tearing sound, and the whole bottom of the chair seemed to drop out. A cloud of dust arose. Tom was like a person who had sat upon a barrel, the head of which had collapsed.
"Oh, wow!" he cried, as he vainly struggled ​to get up. "I say, can't some of you fellows give me a hand?"
"What's the matter, hurt?" asked Phil, anxiously.
"No, but I'm wedged in here as if I'd sat on a drum."
They pulled him out, and through the settling cloud of dust gazed at the ruin.
"Now you have gone and done it," said Sid, reproachfully.
"I guess I have," admitted Tom, regretfully, as he moved the chair to one side. Several of the bottom boards were on the floor. On top of them, amid a little pile of dirt and splinters, was a folded paper. Tom picked it up. He knocked the dust from it and slowly and wonderingly read several lines of writing on the front, and, as he read, a look of bewilderment came over his face.
"Why—why, fellows!" he exclaimed. "Look—look here! A deed—an old deed given by Simon Hess to Jacob Randall, in consideration of—and so forth and so forth—for the purpose of—um—setting aside land on which to erect a college. Why, great Cæsar's grandmother's pumpkin pie!" almost yelled Tom, "this is the missing quit-claim deed that everyone is looking for! The deed on which the title to the college depends! It was in that old chair!"