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                          BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

                            MERRIWELL SERIES

                        ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

                  Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

                    Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and
athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be
of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.


                         ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

      1—Frank Merriwell’s School Days
      2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums
      3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes
      4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
      5—Frank Merriwell Down South
      6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
      7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour
      8—Frank Merriwell in Europe
      9—Frank Merriwell at Yale
     10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
     11—Frank Merriwell’s Races
     12—Frank Merriwell’s Party
     13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour
     14—Frank Merriwell’s Courage
     15—Frank Merriwell’s Daring
     16—Frank Merriwell’s Alarm
     17—Frank Merriwell’s Athletes
     18—Frank Merriwell’s Skill
     19—Frank Merriwell’s Champions
     20—Frank Merriwell’s Return to Yale
     21—Frank Merriwell’s Secret
     22—Frank Merriwell’s Danger
     23—Frank Merriwell’s Loyalty
     24—Frank Merriwell in Camp
     25—Frank Merriwell’s Vacation
     26—Frank Merriwell’s Cruise
     27—Frank Merriwell’s Chase
     28—Frank Merriwell in Maine
     29—Frank Merriwell’s Struggle
     30—Frank Merriwell’s First Job
     31—Frank Merriwell’s Opportunity
     32—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Luck
     33—Frank Merriwell’s Protégé
     34—Frank Merriwell on the Road
     35—Frank Merriwell’s Own Company
     36—Frank Merriwell’s Fame
     37—Frank Merriwell’s College Chums
     38—Frank Merriwell’s Problem
     39—Frank Merriwell’s Fortune
     40—Frank Merriwell’s New Comedian
     41—Frank Merriwell’s Prosperity
     42—Frank Merriwell’s Stage Hit
     43—Frank Merriwell’s Great Scheme
     44—Frank Merriwell in England
     45—Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards
     46—Frank Merriwell’s Duel
     47—Frank Merriwell’s Double Shot
     48—Frank Merriwell’s Baseball Victories
     49—Frank Merriwell’s Confidence
     50—Frank Merriwell’s Auto
     51—Frank Merriwell’s Fun
     52—Frank Merriwell’s Generosity
     53—Frank Merriwell’s Tricks
     54—Frank Merriwell’s Temptation
     55—Frank Merriwell on Top
     56—Frank Merriwell’s Luck
     57—Frank Merriwell’s Mascot
     58—Frank Merriwell’s Reward
     59—Frank Merriwell’s Phantom
     60—Frank Merriwell’s Faith
     61—Frank Merriwell’s Victories
     62—Frank Merriwell’s Iron Nerve
     63—Frank Merriwell in Kentucky
     64—Frank Merriwell’s Power
     65—Frank Merriwell’s Shrewdness
     66—Frank Merriwell’s Setback
     67—Frank Merriwell’s Search
     68—Frank Merriwell’s Club
     69—Frank Merriwell’s Trust
     70—Frank Merriwell’s False Friend
     71—Frank Merriwell’s Strong Arm
     72—Frank Merriwell as Coach
     73—Frank Merriwell’s Brother
     74—Frank Merriwell’s Marvel
     75—Frank Merriwell’s Support
     76—Dick Merriwell at Fardale
     77—Dick Merriwell’s Glory
     78—Dick Merriwell’s Promise
     79—Dick Merriwell’s Rescue
     80—Dick Merriwell’s Narrow Escape
     81—Dick Merriwell’s Racket
     82—Dick Merriwell’s Revenge
     83—Dick Merriwell’s Ruse
     84—Dick Merriwell’s Delivery
     85—Dick Merriwell’s Wonders
     86—Frank Merriwell’s Honor
     87—Dick Merriwell’s Diamond
     88—Frank Merriwell’s Winners
     89—Dick Merriwell’s Dash
     90—Dick Merriwell’s Ability
     91—Dick Merriwell’s Trap
     92—Dick Merriwell’s Defense
     93—Dick Merriwell’s Model
     94—Dick Merriwell’s Mystery
     95—Frank Merriwell’s Backers
     96—Dick Merriwell’s Backstop
     97—Dick Merriwell’s Western Mission
     98—Frank Merriwell’s Rescue
     99—Frank Merriwell’s Encounter
    100—Dick Merriwell’s Marked Money
    101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads
    102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
    103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise
    104—Dick Merriwell’s Test
    105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card
    106—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy
    107—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph
    108—Dick Merriwell’s Grit
    109—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance
    110—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide
    111—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal
    112—Dick Merriwell’s Threat
    113—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence
    114—Dick Merriwell’s Day
    115—Frank Merriwell’s Peril
    116—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall
    117—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit
    118—Dick Merriwell Abroad
    119—Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
    120—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks
    121—Frank Merriwell’s Pride
    122—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers
    123—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance
    124—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness
    125—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage
    126—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
    127—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke
    128—Dick Merriwell’s Return
    129—Dick Merriwell’s Resource
    130—Dick Merriwell’s Five
    131—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers
    132—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team
    133—Frank Merriwell’s Pupils
    134—Frank Merriwell’s New Boy
    135—Dick Merriwell’s Home Run
    136—Dick Merriwell’s Dare
    137—Frank Merriwell’s Son
    138—Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate
    139—Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers
    140—Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp
    141—Dick Merriwell’s Influence
    142—Dick Merriwell, Freshman
    143—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power
    144—Dick Merriwell’s Joke
    145—Frank Merriwell’s Talisman
    146—Frank Merriwell’s Horse
    147—Dick Merriwell’s Regret
    148—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism
    149—Dick Merriwell’s Backers
    150—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work
    151—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust
    152—Dick Merriwell’s Debt
    153—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery
    154—Dick Merriwell Adrift
    155—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy
    156—Dick Merriwell’s Close Call
    157—Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyage
    158—Dick Merriwell’s Black Star
    159—Frank Merriwell in Wall Street
    160—Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes
    161—Dick Merriwell’s Stanchness
    162—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Case


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                    Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance

                                   OR

                        THE SPLIT IN THE VARSITY




                                   By
                            BURT L. STANDISH
                Author of the famous Merriwell stories.


[Illustration]


                       STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                               PUBLISHERS
                     79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York


------------------------------------------------------------------------






                            Copyright, 1910
                           By STREET & SMITH
                                  ————
                    Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance






    All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
                 languages, including the Scandinavian.

                        Printed in the U. S. A.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                   DICK MERRIWELL’S FIGHTING CHANCE.

                                  ---




                               CHAPTER I

                         A GATHERING IN DURFEE.


The comfortable sitting room in Durfee Hall, occupied by Dick Merriwell
and his Texas chum, Brad Buckhart, was filled to overflowing. Sprawling
among the cushions of the divan was Rudolph Rose, handsome,
high-spirited, and rather quick-tempered, but happy in the knowledge
that he had at last conquered the latter failing and thereby won a place
in Merriwell’s friendship.

Close beside him was Terry Baxter, quiet, almost too serious, but with a
keen sense of humor which showed in the appreciative gleam in his brown
eyes and the occasional terse, pithy remarks which he uttered in a
solemn manner, but which invariably sent the others into an uproar.

Eric Fitzgerald, slim, slight, and curly haired, dangled his legs from
one end of the table. He was so full of vim and life and go that he
reminded one of a particle of quicksilver, forever on the move; and on
the rare occasions when he did settle down for a moment, he usually
perched himself somewhere in a temporary manner, as if he were only
pausing for an instant before making another flight.

Samp Elwell, the Hoosier, whose dry wit was a source of never-ending
delight to his friends, occupied the piano stool. Across the room sat
his chum, Lance Fair, who was not nearly so unsophisticated as his
smooth, rosy cheeks and almost girlish manner would lead one to imagine.

Buckhart was hunched down on the back of his neck in one of the big
easy-chairs near the table, while Merriwell himself was tilted back
against the wall in the desk chair, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth
and a smile curving the corners of his sensitive mouth.

“You fellows ought to have been in Pierson’s classroom this morning,” he
remarked. “After the lecture he started in to quiz us, and happened to
spy Hollister gazing dreamily out of the window. I suppose Bob was
thinking out some new football stunt. Anyway, he was miles away from
Roman history, and Pierson caught him.

“‘Mr. Hollister,’ he said, in that short, snappy way he has, ‘can you
mention one memorable date in Roman history?’

“Bob came out of his trance with a jump and snapped back without
thinking, ‘Anthony’s with Cleopatra, sir.’ It brought down the house.”

There was a shout of delighted laughter, and when it had died down Samp
Elwell looked up, grinning.

“He did,” chimed in Fitzgerald from the table. “Piercy was mad as
thunder. It isn’t the first time Bob’s flunked by a long shot, either.
He’s been awful punky this term.”

“I’d like to have seen old Pierson’s face,” he chuckled. “I reckon Bob
drew a goose egg for that.”

“Too much football, I opine,” growled the Texan. “He can’t get his mind
off the game long enough to feed his face, let alone keep track of
lectures. He’s plumb locoed about it. You hear me gently warble!”

“Oh, say,” Elwell spoke up suddenly; “how about that new stunt of old
Bill’s. That forward——”

The Texan straightened up like a flash, and, grabbing a book from the
table, shied it with swiftness and remarkable accuracy at the Hoosier’s
head. Elwell ducked, and the book struck the piano, falling to the
keyboard with a discordant crash.

“What in time——” began the indignant sophomore, straightening up again.

“You don’t seem to recollect what I tried to drill into that solid ivory
skull of yours a brief time back,” Buckhart drawled with perfect
composure. “Talking shop has got to be cut out around this bunk house.
I’m plumb sick of hearing about football. For six weeks I’ve heard
nothing else, and now that Tempest is back on the job I’m going to take
a rest.”

“Great Scott, Brad!” Rose exclaimed aghast. “You’re not going to leave
the team!”

“Thunderation, no!” the Texan retorted. “I’ll hold down my job till the
cows come home; but off the field I’m going to forget it and take a
whack at the books I have hardly got a squint at since the term began.
So, unless you gents want to start a row promiscuous like, kindly
refrain from holding forth on the subject while I’m around.”

“Say, fellows, isn’t it pretty near time we organized a little fishing
party up to the lake?” asked Fitzgerald.

Trout fishing was one of his pet hobbies.

“Any trout there?” inquired Fair quickly.

“Thousands of ’em,” returned Fitz.

“Will they bite easily?” asked Lance.

“Will they?” exclaimed the slim chap. “Well, I should say they would!
Why, they’re absolutely vicious. A man has to hide behind a tree to bait
his hook.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Dick remarked. “We haven’t gone on a trip
like that this fall. Say, Samp, why don’t you take a comfortable chair?
You’ve been holding down that piano stool all evening, and you know you
can’t play a note.”

The Hoosier winked significantly and cast a meaning glance at
Fitzgerald, one of whose many accomplishments was the singing of popular
ditties to improvised accompaniments consisting of a more or less
skillful variation of two chords.

“I know that,” Elwell returned composedly, “but neither can any one else
while I’m here.”

Fitz instantly took up the gantlet.

“Talk about hogs!” he exclaimed, springing from his seat on the table.
“And here I am fairly bursting with a perfectly punk song I just learned
this afternoon. Avaunt, creature!”

He made a dive at Elwell, and, before the stalwart Hoosier realized what
was happening, the piano stool was deftly upset and he sprawled on the
floor. By the time he had scrambled to his feet, the slim chap was
seated calmly at the keyboard and had struck an opening chord.

“Come into the garden, Maud,” he began dramatically. He got no farther.
A united yell of protest arose which effectually drowned him out.

“Oh, what a chestnut!”

“Noah sang that to the animals in the ark!”

“Give us something that’s not more than two thousand years old!”

Fitz turned slowly around, a look of pained surprise on his freckled
face.

“Peace, prithee—peace!” he chided. “I assure you that the song is quite
new, save the first line, which may be a little reminiscent. Kindly
refrain from any more rude, vulgar interruptions.”

Before the others could recover their breath he struck the chords and
began to sing again, this time rather hurriedly:

                 “Come into the garden, Maud”;
                    But Maud was much too wise.
                 ‘Oh, no,’ said she, ‘the corn has ears
                    And the potatoes eyes.’

His voice, dwelling lingeringly and fondly on the last note, was drowned
in a shout of laughter.

“Great!” choked Buckhart. “Maud was a wise child, all right.”

“Give us another verse, old fellow,” chuckled Elwell.

“I’m afraid I’m not in very good voice to-night,” simpered Fitz, looking
coyly down at the keys. “Such a critical audience always makes me so
nervous. However——”

He lifted his voice again in the same serious chant.

                “The rain it falls upon the just,
                  And also on the unjust fellers;
                But chiefly on the just, because
                  The unjust have the justs’ umbrellers.”

This verse was received with equal applause, and Fitz was entreated to
give them another.

“Sing another song,” urged Rose. “You must know a pile of them.”

“Well, I’ll give you a very short one,” the slim chap returned with much
apparent reluctance. “It’s a little old, but you mustn’t mind a thing
like that.”

Striking a single chord, he began the first line.

                          “Mary had a little——”

He paused, and, clearing his throat, glanced around at his audience,
plainly surprised that there had been no interruption. Having been
caught once, however, the fellows were not going to repeat the
performance, and remained expectantly silent.

Seeing that he could not get a rise out of them, Fitzgerald turned back
to the piano and began the song over again.

                      “Mary had a little skirt
                        Tied tightly in a bow,
                      And everywhere that Mary went
                        She simply couldn’t go.”

“That’s all,” he announced, springing up and skipping over to the table
again. “Somebody else can do parlor tricks now.”

Before any one had a chance to reply, the door was opened rather
unceremoniously, and a tall, curly haired, sun-burned fellow, with an
attractive face and the figure of an athlete, entered composedly, and
closed the door behind him.

From the uproarious nature of the greeting he received, it was quite
evident that he was a general favorite.

“Hello, Bob!”

“Come in and rest your face and hands.”

“How about Anthony’s date with Cleopatra?”

Bob Hollister grinned a little sheepishly.

“Heard about that, have you?” he inquired, as he dropped down on a
chair. “I suppose that’ll be rubbed into me for the next six months.
What the deuce did I know about Roman history? I was doping out a new
around-the-end combination.”

“Sh! Careful!” cautioned Elwell, with upraised finger.

Hollister looked bewildered.

“What’s the matter?” he asked quickly.

“No football talk,” returned the Hoosier, with a grin. “Our esteemed,
ex-temporary captain objects to it in the sacred privacy of his
apartment.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” gasped Hollister. “Not talk about football! What
in the mischief else is there to talk about?”

Dick smiled.

“You have got it bad, Bob,” he remarked. “Don’t you ever think about
anything else?”

Hollister shook his head.

“Hardly ever,” he confessed. “I couldn’t keep it out of my head if I
tried, with the big game so close. Why, I even wake up in the middle of
the night wondering how to work certain combinations, or thinking up
some new way of getting the ball through their line. I haven’t had time
to open a book in weeks.”

He gave a sudden start, and, diving down into one pocket, drew out a
rather crumpled envelope.

“Just look at that,” he remarked, tossing it over to Dick.

Merriwell caught it and extracted a square, printed slip, which proved
to be one of the warning notices sent out from the dean’s office when a
student has fallen behind the required grade in any particular study.

“A warning in Latin,” he said thoughtfully. “You must have been pretty
rotten lately, Bob. Goodhue is one of the easiest profs in college.”

“I have flunked a bunch of times,” Hollister confessed. “And that isn’t
all, either. Got one in German day before yesterday. I suppose Schlemmer
got on his ear after the mess I made of Heine last week.”

“You want to look out, Bobby,” Fitzgerald put in lightly. “After this
morning, you’re due for still another. Dear old Piercy was purple when
you made that cute remark about Anthony’s date. I’ll bet he hot-footed
to the dean the minute the class was over.”

“And three warnings means a general one,” supplemented Elwell. “By
hocus, Bobby! You’ll have to do a little cramming, or you’ll have the
whole faculty down on your neck.”

“They are now!” Hollister burst out petulantly. “I believe it’s a put-up
job. Every one of them takes a special delight in getting me up every
chance they can and making a monkey out of me. They ought to know I
don’t have any chance to grind right in the middle of the football
season. But what do they care about football! A lot of dried-up fossils!
They don’t give a rap whether we’re licked or not. I don’t believe the
biggest part of ’em even see one game a season.”

“You’re wrong there, Bob,” Dick put in quietly. “Some of the profs are
daffy about the game. The dean wouldn’t miss one for any amount of
money.”

“Yes, and old Piercy is the worst of the lot,” chimed in Fitzgerald.
“You ought to have seen him Saturday—standing up on the bench, his hat
off, hair rumpled, and eyes popping out of his head, waving his arms
like a windmill, and yelling like a fiend. He’s a good old sport, even
if he does like to catch a fellow napping in the classroom.”

The clock struck ten, and the sound had scarcely died away when Buckhart
threw out his arms and yawned, loudly and ostentatiously.

“Humph!” remarked Fitzgerald tartly. “Why don’t you tell us plainly that
it’s time to go home?”

“I was waiting to see if you wouldn’t wake up to the fact yourselves,”
the Texan returned tranquilly.

The slim chap eyed him mischievously.

“I’ve a good mind to stay here just to spite you,” he said presently.

Buckhart yawned again.

“Stay right along, if you like, little one,” he drawled. “That wouldn’t
bother me a whole lot. In about ten minutes I’m going to hit the pillow;
but if you gents want to sit here for the rest of the night chinning,
you’ve sure got my permission.”

Most of the other fellows were about ready to turn in themselves, and
there was a general movement toward the door. Hollister got up with the
rest, and then glanced hesitatingly toward Merriwell.

“Got a couple of minutes to spare, Dick?” he asked, in a low tone.

“Sure thing,” Merriwell returned quickly. “Sit down and I’ll be with you
in a minute.”

Hollister dropped back onto his chair, and Dick followed the others to
the door. With a chorus of good nights, they trooped out in a body and
clattered downstairs. Then Merriwell came back into the room and resumed
his seat, while Buckhart made tracks for the bedroom.

“You gents will have to excuse me,” he mumbled. “Can’t keep my blinkers
propped open another minute. Good night.”

Without waiting for their response, he disappeared, and the next moment
the sound of shoes being thrown to the floor was heard, followed with
amazing swiftness by the creak of springs as the Texan crawled into bed.

“Gee! I wish I could do that,” Hollister murmured.

Dick raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Go to sleep the minute I hit the pillow,” Hollister explained. “I toss
around for an hour or more, thinking about all kinds of things. Seems as
if I could think better at night when everything’s quiet and there’s no
one to disturb me.”

“Football, I suppose?” Dick questioned, looking at him thoughtfully.

Hollister nodded.

“Yes, but that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said
quickly. “It’s these confounded warnings. I never got one of them before
this fall.”

His tone was almost angry.

“As I remember,” Dick remarked, “you never used to have any trouble
keeping up in your studies, but still had plenty of time for almost
anything in the line of athletics you wanted to do.”

A frown corrugated Hollister’s forehead.

“Exactly,” he returned. “It looks to me as if the profs did the thing on
purpose just to worry me when they ought to know I’ve got to give all my
time to football. It’s a rotten shame!”

Dick did not answer for a moment.

“I hardly think that’s it, Bob,” he said presently. “There wouldn’t be
any object in their doing that. I don’t believe they like giving a
fellow’s name to the dean. I know Goodhue doesn’t, for he’s told me so.
He doesn’t have a man warned until it’s absolutely necessary. No, I’m
afraid the trouble is altogether with you. You don’t bone enough.”

Hollister smiled wryly.

“I don’t grind at all,” he said quickly. “Somehow, there doesn’t seem to
be any time.”

Dick smiled.

“Shucks! You’ve got as much time as the rest of us. Somehow we manage to
make a passable showing.”

Hollister flushed a little.

“I suppose I have got the time,” he said slowly, “but I can’t seem to
make use of it. The minute I sit down with a book, my mind flies off to
the field as regular as clockwork, and before I know it it’s time to
turn in, and I haven’t done an earthly thing with the Latin or math, or
whatever it may be; but very likely I’ve thought out some corking new
formation or trick play.”

“I see,” Dick said quietly; “but what good does it all do?”

“Good!” exclaimed Hollister, in surprise. “Why, I put the idea up to
Tempest or Fullerton, and often they can make use of it.”

“Of course I know that,” Dick returned. “There isn’t a fellow on the
team who has a better, broader conception of the strategy of the game;
but you’re not in college just to play football and let everything else
go to smash. That sounds sort of priggish, I know, but it’s really the
truth. What you’ve got to do is to put it out of your mind the moment
you leave the field. If you don’t, Bob, you’ll be plucked as sure as
fate.

“Brad has realized that, and you know there isn’t a fellow in college
who thinks more of the game. But while he was taking Tempest’s place as
captain, he just about dropped everything else and got frightfully
behind in his work. Since Don came back last week, Brad has been doing
his best not to think of football except on the field, and he’s done
such a lot of hard grinding that he’s beginning to catch up.”

“That’s what I ought to do, of course,” Hollister agreed. “But I don’t
see how I can, Dick. I start in, really intending to study, but somehow,
I never get anywhere.”

“That’s all nonsense,” Dick said emphatically. “You can do it if you
really make up your mind to. Great Scott, man! You don’t want to develop
into a fellow with just one idea, do you? If you keep on this way, you
won’t be able to think of another earthly thing but football. And if you
don’t take a brace in your real work, you’re more than likely to be
dropped. Then where would you be?”

Hollister’s face had grown very serious. He seemed to realize for the
first time the gravity of the situation and the end toward which he was
rapidly drifting. Somehow it had never occurred to him that there was a
possibility of being dropped. If that should happen, what earthly good
would his ability to play football be to him? It was not a pleasant
thought.

“I expect you’re right, old man,” he said slowly, with a rather futile
attempt at a smile. “Looks as if I’d have to take a big brace before
something drops. It’s going to be a hard pull, though.”

“Of course, it will be hard, Bob,” Dick said earnestly, “but you’ve got
to do it. Just make up your mind that you positively won’t give the game
a thought off the field. Banish it entirely from your mind, and take a
fresh spurt with the books. Then I think you’ll come out all right.”

Hollister arose slowly.

“That’s what I’ll do,” he said quickly; “at least, that’s what I’ll try
to do.”

“Don’t say try,” Merriwell put in swiftly. “Don’t let there be a doubt
in your mind of your ability to succeed, and I think you’ll make good.”

“Right you are,” Hollister smiled. “I’ll start in to-morrow morning. I’m
awfully obliged, Dick, for your advice. I didn’t seem to realize before
how serious a fix I was in, but I’ll pull up now, and I think things
will come around in good shape.”

“Of course, they will,” Merriwell answered heartily. “See you to-morrow,
old fellow. Good night.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER II

                           THE THIRD WARNING.


Bob Hollister played right end on the varsity, and was one of the most
valuable men on the team. He was remarkably speedy, quite equaling the
Indian, Joe Crowfoot; absolutely tireless, with the added advantage of
having played the game ever since his prep school days, so he was
familiar with every phase of it.

No matter in what apparently direful straits the team might be, Bob
never gave up hope. Not until the final whistle blew, announcing that
the game was finished, would he acknowledge that he was beaten, and his
cheery optimism always had an inspiring effect on the discouraged
members of the team, more than once being the means of pulling them out
of the slough of despondency and changing defeat into victory.

Perhaps more than anything else, the quality which made him valuable was
the fact that he never lost his head. No matter what might be happening,
Bob Hollister could always be depended on to use his brains. And not
only did he use them to advantage during the progress of a game, but he
was noted for the ingenious combinations and strategic plays which he
worked out and submitted to Bill Fullerton, the head coach.

The latter had often remarked that Hollister had either a perfectly
phenomenal mind, or else he spent his entire waking hours doping out
these plays, so many of which had proved invaluable to the eleven.

His latter supposition had been the correct one. Hollister’s brain did,
indeed, work very quickly; and that, together with his perfect knowledge
of football, enabled him to work out clever schemes in far less time
than the ordinary mortal; but what had at first started as a more or
less interesting pastime now reached a point when it absorbed almost
every conscious moment.

Dick Merriwell’s words opened his eyes to the truth, and, as he crossed
the campus to his rooms in Vanderbilt, he gave them very serious thought
and attention.

He would start in the very next day with the necessary reform. He would
do as Dick advised, and cut out thinking about football except when he
was on the field. It was too bad the profs hadn’t let him alone until
after the end of the season, for then he could have turned his attention
to his books with a much freer mind; but since they hadn’t, he must
simply make the best of it. It would be a hard pull, but he did not
doubt his ability to succeed.

_He went to sleep that night thinking over a new variation of the
forward pass._

Before leaving his rooms next morning, the expected warning from the
dean, regarding his extremely poor showing in history, appeared.

Hollister read it with an expression of whimsical annoyance on his
pleasant face.

“Darn his buttons!” he muttered. “Why couldn’t Piercy have passed over
that break of mine! He might have known I wasn’t paying attention. I
suppose he thought I was trying to be funny and cod him. Well, I’ll have
to make the best of it. I hope he doesn’t get after me again to-day,
though. I haven’t the most remote idea what his lecture was about
yesterday.”

Nor had he a much clearer conception of any of the other recitations or
lectures he was to attend that day, and his face was rather glum as he
ran downstairs and out onto the campus. He was due at the chemical lab
at ten o’clock, and, as he hurried across one of the walks, head down
and thoughts, sad to say, very far away from chemistry, he suddenly
heard some one calling his name.

“What’s your hurry, Bob? Where you rushing to?”

Hollister looked up quickly, and when he saw who the speaker was, his
face brightened.

“Hello, Jarv,” he said quickly. “I’m due at the lab at ten o’clock.”

“As it lacks just sixteen minutes of that hour, and you can’t possibly
use up more than five getting over there, I fail to see the reason for
your hurry,” commented Jarvis Blake, as he continued to advance slowly
and leisurely. “I’m going there myself, but I don’t propose to run my
legs off.”

He was a big, blond fellow, with thick, straight, almost tow-colored
hair, eyelashes and eyebrows so light as to be nearly invisible. He wore
a neatly clipped yellow mustache, which was the exact color of corn
silk.

His eyes were dark blue and set wide apart, his features clean-cut and
handsome, except that his mouth was large and loosely set. He was one of
the best subs on the varsity and played an exceedingly good, brainy
game.

Men about college said he had a pronounced case of swelled head.
Certainly he was not likely to undervalue himself, but for all that he
was well liked among a certain class, and Hollister had always found him
genial and entertaining, a good fellow in every respect.

“Didn’t know I had so much time,” the latter explained, as they pursued
their way along the walk together.

“How are things?” inquired Jarvis. “Strikes me you look a bit glum this
morning.”

Hollister hesitated for an instant.

“Oh, it’s those warnings, I suppose,” he said, at length. “I got the
third one right after breakfast.”

Blake whistled.

“Well, what have you been doing to get the profs down on you?” he asked.

“It’s what I haven’t done that’s got them going, I reckon,” Hollister
returned. “I don’t know as I blame them much after the way I’ve flunked
lately.”

“Rot!” exclaimed Blake emphatically. “You’re no worse than half the
other fellows in the class.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hollister said doubtfully. “I’d hate to count
up the number of goose eggs I’ve accumulated this term. You heard the
fool thing I said to Piercy yesterday?”

Blake grinned.

“Say, that was sort of funny, wasn’t it?” he remarked. “But anybody
could see you weren’t paying attention. You heard from old Pierson,
then?”

Hollister nodded.

“That’s the one I got this morning.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let a thing like that worry me,” Blake went on
quickly. “The profs don’t seem to realize that a fellow can’t give much
time to work during the football season. They get down on a man, too,
and, once he flunks, they keep pounding him out of sheer spite. I
haven’t got any warnings so far, but I’d be willing to bet that one or
two will come along within the next two weeks.”

“Hope you don’t, I’m sure,” Hollister returned absently. “There’s no
doubt about it, though, I’ve got to take a brace and cut out thinking
about football at all off the field, if I want to stay on with the
class.”

A look of dismay came into Blake’s sun-burned face.

“Why, what the mischief are you thinking of, Bob?” he asked quickly.
“Stop thinking about football when you’re the brains, practically, of
the team! Why, only a couple of days ago I heard old Bill saying that
three-quarters of the clever stunts he had made use of this fall were
due to you.”

Hollister’s face flushed a little and his eyes gleamed with pleasure.

“Is that straight?” he asked eagerly. “Did he really say all that?”

“He certainly did, and a lot more, which I won’t repeat for fear you’ll
have to buy a bigger-sized hat. You can’t stop now, Bob, when we’re all
counting on you for so much. The new rules have practically made a
different game out of football, and you’ve been one of the few that have
risen to the occasion and doped out a bunch of new tricks which will
knock spots out of Harvard. All this warning business is tommyrot. They
won’t drop you, and after the season is over you can buckle down to work
and make up for lost time.”

Blake’s words made a deep impression on Hollister, especially since they
coincided exactly with his own ideas. After all, what was the use in
worrying himself about the matter when there were only a few more weeks
left before the season would be over? He would have no trouble then in
recovering the ground he had lost, once his mind was freed from the
constant consideration of football problems. And, according to Jarvis
Blake, his help was really needed by the team.

“Better reconsider,” Blake urged presently. “Don’t give up the ship just
yet.”

They were going into the laboratory as he spoke, and Hollister hesitated
an instant in the doorway.

“I will, Jarv,” he said slowly. “Much obliged for all you told me about
old Bill. That sort of thing is mighty encouraging, you know.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III

                         A TALK WITH THE DEAN.


Bob Hollister fully expected to find a general warning awaiting him in
his rooms, when he returned at noon. He had been surprised that it had
not appeared in the morning, but supposed it to have been delayed in the
mail.

Consequently, he was not a little dismayed to find, instead, a
typewritten note signed by the dean himself, asking him kindly to call
at the latter’s office at half-past two.

“What in calamity does he mean by that?” he muttered, crinkling his
forehead into a dozen worried wrinkles. “I reckon I’m in for a good
roast this time.”

Outwardly calm, but with considerable inward trepidation, he reached the
dean’s office five minutes before the appointed time, and, on sending in
his name, was at once summoned to the inner office.

The dean looked up from his desk as the senior entered.

“Sit down, Mr. Hollister,” he said, indicating a chair which stood near
the desk.

Hollister dropped down in the chair and crossed his legs. There was
silence for a moment while the older man reached out to take up several
papers which had been pinned together, and glanced them over. Then he
leaned back in his chair and surveyed Bob meditatively through his
gold-rimmed glasses.

“You are aware, of course, Mr. Hollister,” he remarked presently, “that
an undergraduate who has been the recipient of three separate notices
warning him that his rank in as many different studies is not
satisfactory, has sent to him what is called a general warning?”

“Yes, sir,” Bob returned quietly.

“You know, I suppose, the meaning of this general warning?”

“Yes, sir—er—well, not exactly,” Bob said hastily. “I haven’t had one so
far myself, but I always thought that they were a pretty emphatic hint
for a fellow to brace up and attend to business.”

The dean’s eyes twinkled.

“You have the right notion,” he remarked. “To deserve a general warning,
a man’s record must be pretty bad. I am sorry to say that yours is more
than bad. It is atrocious.”

Hollister’s face flushed and he dropped his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

The dean placed the tips of his fingers lightly together and surveyed
the troubled face of the senior over the tops of them.

“It is in such marked contrast to your record of the past three years,”
he went on quietly, “that I decided to have a talk with you and find out
what was the matter. Can you tell me, Mr. Hollister, why it is that you
seem to have done absolutely nothing in any class this term?”

“I’ve—been thinking—a lot about—football,” stammered Bob.

“Ah! Giving time to it away from the field, you mean?” the older man
inquired.

Hollister nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that necessary to a proper performance of the game?” the dean asked
quietly. “I do not seem to recall any such complaints as these about the
work of other members of the eleven.”

He tapped the papers on the desk in front of him lightly.

Hollister glanced up quickly.

“It isn’t absolutely necessary,” he answered. “But the new rules have
changed the game a lot and made it necessary to devise a great many
different tricks and combinations to make up for those which have been
barred out. I’ve been awfully interested in it, and I’ve spent a good
deal of time thinking these things out, which should, no doubt, have
been put to better use.”

The older man nodded.

“I understand,” he said slowly. “I have observed your excellent work on
the field, and that is one of the reasons why I wished to find out what
was the matter. Football, like many other athletic games, is extremely
valuable, Mr. Hollister, as an aid to character development. But, like
almost every other good thing, it is liable to be done to death. I’m
sure you don’t wish to develop into a man with only one idea, one
purpose in life.

“Such a man gets into a rut—becomes narrow, ineffective, and finally
useless. It’s a common failing in the business world, and has resulted
in thousands upon thousands of the merest machines and human automatons.
While you’re on the field play the game for all that is in you, but
don’t carry the thought of it always with you, to the exclusion of every
other duty. I shall not send you the general warning just yet, Mr.
Hollister, until I see whether you take this little talk to heart. Your
playing on the eleven has earned you a little latitude, but it must be
understood that from this moment there has to be a very marked change
for the better in your class records, or I shall be obliged to let
things take their regular course. I hope you understand my meaning.”

“Perfectly, sir,” Hollister answered gratefully, “and I mean to take it
to heart as well. I hope that you won’t have cause for any more
complaints.”

The dean smiled.

“Good,” he said quickly. “If you persist in your determination, I am
sure I shall not. I think that’s all. No doubt you are eager to get down
to the field. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Hollister answered, as he arose and walked toward
the door.

Once outside, he dashed out of Lampson Hall, tore across to the car, and
in a few minutes was on his way to the field.

“He certainly is a good sort,” he said to himself as he got a seat well
forward in the car. “I expected to be handed out a cold calldown, and it
was a regular fatherly talk. He’s right, though, I really ought to brace
up; but how the mischief can I until the season’s over?”

Once on the gridiron, Hollister was in his element. He flung himself
into the practice game with tremendous enthusiasm, playing with all the
vim and go and energy which he would have exhibited in a hot contest
with another college.

He was not the sort that hold back and do just enough to make a fairly
good showing. He must do his best or nothing, and for that reason he was
very valuable in practice. He always kept his temper, disdained hard
knocks—they were all part of the game; and he was never too tired to try
“just one more formation.”

He had worked out his forward pass in detail and Fullerton approved of
it so highly that he tried it out with complete success that afternoon,
much to Hollister’s delight.

“Great stunt of yours,” Jarvis Blake said, as they were trotting across
the field toward the athletic house. “I thought you’d realize that you
couldn’t leave off helping the team out just yet a while.”

Again Hollister felt that pleasant, satisfying glow of ability fitly
recognized. Fullerton’s commendations had been especially emphatic, too,
and they had a long discussion about a new move which the coach had not
been able to plan out in detail, and which he was anxious to have Bob
think over.

Even Don Tempest, the captain, usually very chary with his praise, had
held him up as an example to one or two lagging members of the team;
and, altogether, Hollister was feeling pretty good as he entered the
house.

He joined Dick Merriwell, who was hastily dressing in front of his
locker.

“Did you get that general warning you were expecting?” Dick asked.

Bob grinned.

“No; but I got a talking to from the dean,” he returned.

Dick whistled.

“Calldown?” he asked.

“Not so much of a one as I thought it was going to be,” Hollister
confessed. “Told me I had to brace up and cut out football off the
field. I’d like to have told him that it was just what you advised last
night, but I didn’t.”

Dick laughed.

“Glad to have my judgment confirmed from so eminent a source,” he
smiled. “I hope you’ll take some of this advice which is being thrown at
you so plentifully.”

Hollister’s face fell.

“After to-night I will,” he said hastily. “I’ve got to think out that
combination of Fullerton’s, you know; but to-morrow I really will begin
to dig good and hard.”

Merriwell’s face grew a little serious.

“Think that’s wise, Bob?” he asked quietly. “I’ve noticed that the
resolutions which we put off until to-morrow never materialize. They
always get shoved on to another to-morrow. It’s none of my business, old
fellow, but I should hate like the mischief to have anything happen so
that you couldn’t keep on with the class.”

“Oh, they won’t drop me,” Hollister said confidently. “Even the dean
said he’d noticed my work on the field and thought I ought to have a
little latitude. I’ll make it up after the season’s over, Dick. I’ll
turn into such a grind you won’t know me. Gee! I’ve got to get a hustle
on or I won’t get round to supper.”

He hurried off without giving Dick a chance to reply. It almost seemed
as if he were afraid of what his friend might say, but there was no fear
of Merriwell’s following him up with advice which was apparently not
wanted.

As he glanced after Hollister there was a look of regret in Dick’s dark
eyes. He knew just about how far Bob would go with his resolutions of
turning over a new leaf, and it worried him a little to think of the
chances his friend was taking.

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he slipped into his coat, slapped a
cap on his head, and, gathering in Buckhart, left the house.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IV

                           FROM BAD TO WORSE.


For the next few days, Bob Hollister saw more of Jarvis Blake than he
had in as many weeks before that. The big, blond fellow took to dropping
in at his rooms at all hours of the day or night, and, though he usually
had some plausible reason for so doing, it might have been observed that
he invariably turned the talk into the channel of football matters
before he had been there five minutes.

This was not difficult to do. More often than not, he did not have to
introduce the matter at all, for Bob was always ready to meet him even
more than halfway. But the result was that the occasional half-hearted
attempts of Hollister to do a little studying were completely
frustrated.

Bob really meant well. He fully intended to take a brace and follow the
advice which had been given him by Merriwell, and by the dean himself,
and had it not been for these regular visits of Blake, he might possibly
have succeeded in occasionally absorbing a few facts from his textbooks
which would have staved off for a little while the inevitable smash; for
his roommate, Jim Townsend, though a fellow who took an absorbing
interest in all branches of athletics, had long ago seen whither his
chum was drifting, and had resolutely refused to discuss anything
pertaining to football with him during the evenings.

But Blake had no such compunctions. He seemed to take a particular
delight in running in about eight o’clock with some idea about the game
which had occurred to him, and about which he wanted Bob’s opinion. The
natural result was that the entire evening was spent in discussion, and
absolutely no studying was done.

As an equally natural consequence, Hollister continued to make a fearful
showing in the classroom, accumulating zero after zero with a regularity
which was appalling.

Townsend tried persuasion at first, urging his friend to take a brace
before it was too late, and pointing out what the extremely unpleasant
result would be if he did not. Each time Bob would acknowledge in a
good-natured way that he was in the wrong, and vow that he would turn
over a new leaf and do some cramming that very night.

But when the evening came and Blake appeared with his insidious
questions and arguments on football matters, books would be thrown
quickly aside and Hollister would enter joyfully into the discussion
which generally lasted until bedtime.

Once or twice Townsend tackled Blake himself, showing him clearly how
much harm his visits were doing Hollister; but the big, blond chap
laughed down his arguments, treated the matter as something which
Townsend’s fears had greatly exaggerated, and calmly went on his way.

Very soon Jim began to have a more than sneaking suspicion that there
was some method in Blake’s behavior. The thing occurred with entirely
too much regularity for it to be merely accidental, especially as the
fellow had not been in the habit of coming into their rooms more than
once or twice a week until very lately.

Gradually this suspicion became a certainty, and, before very long,
Townsend felt sure that he had hit upon the reason for it all.

The thought made his blood boil, and he lost no time in broaching the
matter to his roommate.

Bob was rather late coming in from the training table that night, but
the instant he opened the door Townsend, who had been waiting
impatiently for him, opened fire.

“Has it occurred to you, Bob,” he remarked, with apparent casualness,
“that Blake’s been dropping in here an awful lot lately?”

Hollister threw his hat on a chair and plumped himself down on another.

“Why, I don’t know,” he said carelessly; “perhaps he has. We’ve had a
bunch of things to talk over, though. He’s really got some very good
ideas and has helped me a lot.”

Townsend sniffed.

“Helped you! Humph!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Yes, I believe it!”

Hollister glanced inquiringly at him.

“What’s the matter, Jim?” he asked. “What you got against Jarv?”

“What’s he come in here every night for, I’d like to know?” Townsend
demanded. “He gets you going on football, and the result is you haven’t
opened a book since you had that talk with the dean, and your flunks in
the classrooms are something fierce.”

Hollister’s face took on an expression of whimsical annoyance.

“Thunder, Jim!” he exclaimed petulantly. “What do you want to start
preaching for? You know I’m going to settle down into a fierce grind the
minute the last game is over. I just can’t find time to do it now with
so much else to think about.”

“Rot!” growled Townsend. “You talk nutty! You’d have time enough if that
tow-headed son of a gun didn’t come butting in every night and break you
all up.”

Hollister made no reply, but his heavy brows drew down into a scowl.
Townsend, too full of his grievance to notice this, presently continued
his argument.

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Bob,” he said significantly, “how very
nice it would be for Blake if you were conditioned and had to leave the
team? He’s one of the best subs for your position, and there’s hardly a
question but what he would step into your shoes at once. I’ll bet that’s
the reason which brings him here so often, with his football talk and
his sneers about there being no danger of the dean doing anything
radical. He’s keeping you from boning on purpose. He’d be tickled to
death to see you dropped so he could——”

“Stop!” interrupted Hollister, in an angry voice. “Just cut out that
line of talk, Jim. You forget that Blake is my friend. You never liked
him, I know, but that’s no reason why you should blackguard him this
way.”

His face was dark, and there was an angry flash in his usually merry
brown eyes; for he was a fellow who was loyal to the very core.
Absolutely upright and honorable himself, it never occurred to him that
there was the most remote possibility that a fellow he liked as much as
he did Jarvis Blake was not entirely fair and square in every way. The
idea to which his roommate had given voice was incredible. He refused to
tolerate the thought for a single instant, and at once proceeded to
thrust it from his mind with the greatest expedition.

Townsend lapsed into a sullen silence. He had done his best to warn his
chum, but, if Bob was so thick-headed as all that, he could go his own
way without hindrance.

This point of view lasted exactly ten minutes, however. By that time Jim
had cooled down and was thinking over some other way by which Hollister
could be brought to his senses. Fond as he was of his roommate, he could
not bear the thought of his being dropped. There must be some way of
making him realize the gravity of the situation.

Not for an instant did Townsend waver in his fixed belief that Blake was
deliberately working to bring about Bob’s downfall so that he could step
into his place on the varsity; and when the blond chap presently
appeared and the usual talk commenced Jim’s temper soon reached a
boiling point. He knew that if he remained in the room much longer he
would have to blow off steam, and, in the present condition of affairs,
that was not at all to be desired.

Consequently, some twenty minutes later, he slammed down his book, and,
without a word of explanation, picked up his hat and went out.

Blake glanced up with a curious smile.

“Our friend seems to be somewhat pettish to-night,” he remarked, in a
languid drawl.

Hollister flushed a little. He knew quite well why Townsend had
departed, and it irritated him to think that his roommate had such a
small, narrow nature as to suspect this big, bluff, frank fellow of any
sort of double dealing.

“Oh, I suppose he thought of something he wanted to do,” he said, rather
lamely. “But about that formation we were speaking of. I’ve doped it all
out. Let me show you.”

Reaching for a piece of paper, he drew a few swift lines on it.

“See, it’s that way,” he said eagerly.

Blake leaned over him, a swift gleam of triumph in his eyes.

“Yes, that’s the idea,” he returned quietly.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V

                              THE QUARREL.


By the time Jim Townsend reached the campus he was at a white heat.

“Hang him!” he snapped viciously. “I know that’s what he’s up to, but
how in the mischief can I make Bob understand? He’s such a softy he
simply won’t believe a thing against Blake, just because he likes him.
The double-faced skunk!”

The last remark was intended for Blake, but Jim was too wrought up to
talk coherently. He wandered around the campus for a few minutes and
then decided to take his troubles to Blair Hildebrand, one of his
particular chums, whose cool, level-headed advice had helped him out on
more than one occasion.

He found the big, blue-eyed senior alone, glancing over the latest issue
of the _Lit_, and evidently very tired of his own company.

“Hello, old man,” he said cordially, as Townsend appeared. “You’re a
perfect godsend. George has gone to New York, and I was just thinking of
looking up some congenial spirit and painting the town red. How’s
everything?”

“Rotten!” returned Townsend shortly, as he dropped onto a chair. “That
dub, Jarvis Blake, is over at the rooms jabbering football and keeping
Bob from doing an earthly thing with to-morrow’s work. And you know how
the dean warned him the other day.”

Hildebrand nodded.

“Yes, I heard about it,” he returned. “Isn’t that something new—Blake’s
coming around, I mean?”

“He’s done it every night this week,” Jim explained morosely. “I’ll bet
any money, Blair, that he’s doing it on purpose so Bob will be dropped
and he’ll get on the varsity. I told Bob as much to-night.”

“How did he take it?” Hildebrand asked interestedly.

“Wouldn’t listen to a word against the man,” returned Townsend. “Thinks
he’s all to the good. You know Bob never will hear anything against a
fellow he likes.”

“Yes, he’s a dandy chap that way,” Hildebrand answered absently. “That’s
one of the reasons why every one likes him so well.”

He was evidently thinking about something else.

“That’s all very nice,” Jim retorted quickly; “but a fellow can carry it
too far. He’s making a fool of himself going on the way he’s been all
this term. He’ll be dropped unless he wakes up mighty sudden. And I
don’t want him dropped. He’s too good a fellow for that.”

Townsend’s voice was mournful and his face downcast and dejected at the
thought of what might happen to his chum.

Presently Hildebrand looked up.

“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if you were right about Blake, Jim,” he said.
“He makes a mighty good showing with his frank, hearty manner, but I
have every reason to think that he’s far from being above just such a
trick as this.”

Townsend sat up suddenly, his face aglow with interest.

“You have?” he exclaimed quickly. “What was it? Anything which Bob would
listen to?”

“Just a little experience I had with him last year,” the stalwart guard
returned quietly; “but it proved pretty conclusively that Blake was
mighty poor stuff. Whether it would have any effect on Bob or not, is
quite another question.”

“Can’t you tell a fellow what it was?” Jim asked eagerly.

Hildebrand shook his head slowly.

“What’s the use?” he said, with a quiet smile. “I don’t believe in
knocking a man unless it’s necessary, even if he isn’t straight. I
haven’t told a soul about this; but if you really think that’s what
Blake’s up to, I have no objection to putting Bob wise on the quiet some
time.”

“I’m sure it is,” Townsend said decidedly. “He never used to come
around, but ever since Bob got that talking to from the dean, he’s been
in every solitary night, and insists on jawing football from the time he
sets foot in the room until he leaves. I’ll take my oath that he’s got a
reason for it.”

“If that’s the case,” Hildebrand returned, “I’ll brace Bob the first
chance I get and tell him a thing or two which will open his eyes.”

The opportunity came the very next afternoon. Both Hollister and
Hildebrand were late getting away from the field, and it happened that,
quite without premeditation on the part of the latter, they came out of
the gate together. In the bustle and turmoil of practice, the big guard
had quite forgotten his promise to Townsend, but now it suddenly came
back into his mind.

“Say, Bob,” he said slowly, “do you mind walking for a few minutes? I
just remembered something I wanted to tell you.”

Hollister looked a little surprised.

“Why, no, not at all,” he returned quickly. “Anything about the team?”

Hildebrand hesitated. He had suddenly discovered that what he had to say
was not going to be at all easy.

“Partly, yes,” he answered presently. “I hope you won’t think I’m a
beastly butter-in, Bob, if I touch on something which is rather
personal. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think so much of you and hate to
see you knifed.”

Hollister frowned and a puzzled look came into his eyes.

“I don’t see quite what you’re driving at,” he said, a bit shortly; “but
go ahead.”

The guard’s pleasant face was flushed. He almost wished he hadn’t
promised Jim; but at length, he drew a long breath and took the plunge.

“It’s about Blake,” he said quickly. “Jim tells me he’s been coming in
every night and keeping you from your work. I think you ought to know
that he isn’t—well, he isn’t quite—a fellow to be trusted. I know,
because I caught him cheating in a poker game last spring—a game for
money.”

An ominous silence followed. In the light of a near-by street lamp,
Hildebrand saw his companion’s lithe figure stiffen and his pleasant
face harden.

“Well, is that all?” inquired Hollister at length, in a cold, cutting
voice.

“Why, yes,” Hildebrand answered in surprise. “I should think it was
enough.”

Hollister was evidently keeping his temper with an effort.

“Entirely too much!” he snapped. “I hope you’re pleased with your
attempt to blacken the character of one of my friends. Nice, pleasant
occupation, isn’t it, running down a man when he isn’t around to defend
himself? However, you’ve had your trouble for your pains. I don’t
believe a word of it.”

Hildebrand caught his breath suddenly and his face turned scarlet.
Stopping abruptly, he turned fiercely on Hollister, with blazing eyes
and clenched fists. Another moment and he would have landed a smashing
blow on the face of the man who had called him a liar, but, just in
time, he got a grip on himself and realized the utter impossibility of
two seniors indulging in a fist fight in the street.

“You’ll be sorry for that, Hollister!” he said, in a voice which
quivered with suppressed anger. “I might have known that this would be
all the thanks I’d get for trying to do you a good turn. I’ll send you
written proof of the statement I just made. Luckily there were two other
men in the game.”

Without another word, he walked quickly away, leaving Hollister alone, a
feeling of regret that he had been so hasty, struggling with the anger
which Hildebrand’s accusation against his friend had aroused in him.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured regretfully. “But he
made me mad with those rotten insinuations against Jarv.”

Then the thought came to him that Hildebrand had not contented himself
with insinuations. He had made a downright, matter-of-fact statement,
which he proposed to back with written proof. But even then Bob could
not bring himself to believe that Blake would descend so low as to cheat
at cards.

There must have been a mistake made somewhere—must be some explanation
of the thing. Blake was one of his special friends whom he had known and
liked ever since they first entered college together, and in all that
time he had never known Jarvis to do anything which was not quite square
and honorable.

Hollister was not at all a good judge of character. His likes and
dislikes were very strong, but they were governed by his heart and not
by his head. If he once came to care for a fellow he was ready to stick
to him through thick and thin, stand up for him at all times and places,
and refused to listen to a word against him. Once or twice during his
college life he had been disappointed in a man who had been admitted to
the inner circle of his friendship. One notable instance was that of a
perfectly charming fellow who was possessed of almost every known
accomplishment and talent, but in whom the sense of right and wrong was
strangely, inexplicably lacking.

Hollister had taken to him tremendously from the very first, and the
fellow’s charm of manner and personal magnetism had blinded him to a
realizing sense of his sinister failings. For months Bob stuck to him,
refusing to listen to the advice of other friends who had discovered the
man’s real character, and had only been brought to his senses by coming
in suddenly one day and catching the fellow in the act of taking money
out of the bill case he had left carelessly on the table.

So he had been all through his college career; honest, loyal,
true-hearted, but strangely blinded by prejudice, sometimes almost
lacking in common sense when it came to judging the real character of a
man.

Presently a car appeared, but Hollister let it go. Hildebrand would
probably take it, and at the present moment he did not feel like riding
back to the campus face to face with the man he had just insulted.

The more he thought over the matter the sorrier he was that he had
allowed his temper to get the best of him. He liked Blair, and, now that
he had calmed down, he realized that the big guard must have been
perfectly sincere when he made the charge against Blake. He had probably
done it with the best intentions in the world.

“Though why everybody is so down on Jarv I can’t imagine,” Bob muttered
to himself. “He’s a good fellow, and we’ve had some dandy talks about
football lately. It’s all rot about his keeping me from work. I can’t
get down to boning, anyway.”

The next car was a long time coming, and, as he stood on the curb
waiting for it, he remembered his roommate’s somewhat heated talk of the
night before. But that was perfectly absurd. There could not be anything
in that. Why, Blake had been actually helping him out with some of the
football problems, giving him some really clever ideas, and he was not
at all likely to do that if he were scheming for his place on the
varsity.

“This is worse than trying to study!” he exclaimed presently, in a tone
of exasperation. “I wish people wouldn’t take such an infernal interest
in what I am doing! Why can’t they let me alone to do as I like?”

The answer was simple, though he would never have guessed it in a
thousand years. He was too decent a fellow to be let alone to ruin
himself by his own blind folly so long as any of his friends could
prevent it.

Just then a car came along and Hollister took it. He did his best to
forget his regrettable quarrel with Hildebrand, but all the way back to
the campus it kept recurring to his mind, bringing with it curious,
disturbing little doubts as to whether there might not be something
after all in the statements the stalwart guard had made, and which
fitted in so patly with Jim Townsend’s petulant outburst.

Consequently, by the time he reached the training table his condition of
mind was not enviable. Hildebrand was already in his place and seemed to
have recovered completely from his fit of anger; but, though he was
pleasant and genial to the others, he paid no attention to Bob, ignoring
his existence quietly, but completely.

In spite of the fact that he had brought it on himself, Hollister was
hurt by this, and unconsciously his attitude toward Jarvis Blake
underwent a change.

As a result of all these wheels within wheels, a sort of damper was
thrown over the whole table which was felt by every one, though few
understood the cause. They only saw that the jokes fell flat, laughter
was forced, or absent altogether, and the resulting silences long drawn
out.

Dick Merriwell was quick to see that something unusual had happened, and
long before the meal was over he was sure that Hollister and Hildebrand
had fallen out in some way. Knowing that there was nothing worse for the
discipline of the team or more productive of poor work than internal
dissensions, he resolved to find out what the trouble was; and, as they
walked back to the campus through “Grub Alley,” he slipped his hand
through Hollister’s arm.

“Say, Bob, what’s the trouble between you and Blair?” he asked, in a low
tone.

Hollister hesitated.

“Oh, we had a run-in this afternoon about Blake,” he said, in a rather
pettish tone. “He told me that Jarv had been caught cheating at poker,
and I as much as said he was a liar. I reckon I shouldn’t have been so
strong, but he made me mad. He had no business to say such a thing about
a friend of mine.”

“I see,” Merriwell returned thoughtfully. “Do you mind telling me what
his object was in giving you that information?”

“It’s all come about through Jim!” Hollister burst out. “He needs to
have his head punched. He’s got the insane idea that Jarv wants to see
me dropped so he can cinch my place in the line. He came out with that
silly story last night. Said Blake comes around on purpose to keep me
from boning so that I’ll flunk in the classes and be thrown out. Of
course, I shut him up quick, and I suppose he went to Blair with his
fool story.”

“Blake been coming around much lately?” Dick asked casually.

“Quite a little.”

“Almost every night, hasn’t he?” Dick persisted.

“Well—yes,” Hollister acknowledged. “This week, that is.”

There was silence for a few moments, which was broken by Merriwell.

“I’m not much on knocking a man, Bob,” he said quietly; “but if I were
you I wouldn’t trust Blake too far. I know of one or two things he’s
done which weren’t quite——Well, you wouldn’t have done them yourself,
old fellow.”

Without waiting for a reply, he dropped Bob’s arm and walked quickly
away, leaving Hollister more of a prey to doubt and suspicions than he
had been before.

He knew that Merriwell was a man who almost never said anything against
a fellow student. If he did not like a man, or disapproved of him for
any reason, he had as little to do with him as possible, but his lips
were generally sealed. If he could not say anything good of a fellow, he
preferred keeping silent.

It was only on very rare occasions when something important was at stake
that he gave an adverse opinion of a man, and, consequently, the few
words he had just uttered concerning Blake were especially significant.
They must have some foundation or Merriwell would never have given voice
to them.

Hollister’s mind was in a turmoil. Unwilling to believe the worst of
Blake, it was impossible not to realize that there must be something
underhand about him or two such fellows as Merriwell and Hildebrand
would never have said what they had against him.

Bewildered and sick at heart, Bob made his way slowly to his rooms. Jim
had gone out for the evening, so that he was alone, and, having tossed
hat and overcoat aside, he dropped down in a chair.

At any rate, he did not want to see Blake that night. With this thing on
his mind, he could not feel at ease with him, and he would rather not
see the man until he had come to some final decision as to what his
course would be. All at once he glanced quickly at the clock.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, springing up. “He’s likely to be here any
time.”

Snatching up his coat and hat, he was about to hurry out when he heard
the muffled slam of the big entrance door below.

“I’ll bet that’s him now,” he muttered.

The next moment he had switched off the light and hurried into the
bedroom, where he softly drew the door partly shut and stood behind it.

Presently a step sounded in the hall, followed by a knock at the door.
Then the latch clicked and some one entered the room.

“Hello, Bobby,” called a familiar voice.

There was no response. Presently Blake stepped over to the electric
light and switched it on.

“Not here,” he murmured, his eyes traveling swiftly about the room.
“That’s funny. He was ahead of me crossing the campus.”

There was a pause during which the big, blond fellow whistled softly, as
he walked up and down the room.

“What’s the good of waiting?” he muttered at length. “He may not come in
for an hour or two. His hash is as good as settled, anyhow. After the
exhibition he made of himself to-day, the dean can’t help doing
something. Maybe little Jarvie will play in the Harvard game after all.”

He laughed softly; there was a click and the room was shrouded in
darkness; the door closed and silence fell.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER VI

                               THE CRASH.


In the bedroom Bob Hollister stood silent, a rush of bitter anger and
regret overwhelming him. Merriwell and Hildebrand and old Jim had all
been right. What a blind fool he had been not to have seen through Blake
before! What a perfect idiot they must think him!

Presently he came back into the sitting room, and, turning on the light,
stood hesitating in the middle of the room. It was up to him to get busy
and do something pretty quick. He must not let Blake triumph.

The sudden shock had made him realize his precarious position more
clearly than a dozen arguments would have done, and there was now an
added incentive to work. He was determined that Blake should not
accomplish the purpose for which he had schemed. His blood was aroused
to a boiling point. He would not be dropped!

But, first of all, he must see Blair. He had behaved shamefully that
afternoon to the fellow who had done a distasteful thing purely for his
own good, and Bob felt that he could not rest until he had apologized.

Slipping into his coat, he hurried out of Vanderbilt and made his way
swiftly across to Lawrence. It must be confessed that his heart rather
failed him as he mounted the stairs and stood before Hildebrand’s door,
but without hesitation he raised his hand and knocked.

“Come in,” called a voice.

Hollister opened the door and stood hesitating on the threshold.

Hildebrand sat alone by the table, and, as he glanced up and saw who his
caller was, his face darkened.

“Well?” he said curtly.

Hollister flushed and took a step forward.

“I—I’ve been—a fool, Blair,” he stammered. “I beg your pardon for what I
said this afternoon.”

“Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?” Hildebrand inquired
sarcastically.

He was still sore over the result of his attempt that afternoon to open
Hollister’s eyes as to the real character of Blake. It had not been a
pleasant nor an easy thing to do, and Bob’s reception of it had cut him
to the quick, besides making him furiously angry.

“Yes; he’s all you said of him and more,” Hollister returned in a low
tone. “I just found out, and I couldn’t rest until I had told you how
sorry I am about the way I talked to you.”

His manner was so dejected, and the look of penitence in his eyes was so
very real as he turned toward the door again, that Hildebrand could not
help but relent.

“Come back here, you old idiot!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet.
“You certainly did made me hot this afternoon, but what’s the use of
keeping mad? Give us your fist, and the next time don’t be so infernally
set in your way.”

Hollister’s eyes brightened as he gripped the proffered hand.

“You’re all to the good, Blair,” he said quickly. “Most fellows would
have felt like kicking me downstairs.”

“I felt worse than that this afternoon,” the big guard grinned. “But
nobody can stay mad with you very long, Bobby. Sit down and let’s hear
about it.”

Hollister told the story briefly, and then, in spite of his friend’s
urging, he departed to put in the rest of the evening in hard studying.
Since it was the first time he had really applied himself to his books
in weeks, he naturally did not make much progress, but at least it was a
beginning.

The blow came the next morning, when the first mail brought him a letter
from the dean’s office. He opened it with trembling fingers and glanced
through the brief contents. The typewritten communication was short,
terse, very much to the point, and bore the scrawly signature of the
dean himself.

    “DEAR SIR: Since you have seen fit utterly to disregard my
    advice of a week ago, I am forced to tell you that unless you
    attain a grade of at least sixty in every recitation from now
    until the beginning of the winter vacation your name will be
    dropped from the rolls of the senior class.”

In perfect silence, jaws set and face a little pale, Hollister read the
short note through the second time.

“Holy cats!” he muttered. “That’s the end of yours truly, all right!
Sixty per cent.! Why don’t he say a hundred and be done with it? I stand
about as much show of getting it.”

Now that it was too late, he saw with vivid clearness the extent of his
amazing folly. Merriwell had done his utmost to make him realize the
seriousness of his position a week ago. Jim had been trying his best to
help him for a longer time than that. Even the dean had strained a point
of college discipline in his favor. And in spite of all this he had gone
his way blithely and blindly, living only in the present, with a
perfectly suicidal disregard for the future.

What could he do? What was there possible for him to do? He was in
despair. He had no more than a glimmering of the work for that day. It
would need nothing less than a miracle for him to get the required
percentage.

The more he thought over the matter, the more despondent he became. At
length, as a last resort, he resolved to go to Dick with his troubles.
He did not hope for any happy solution of the difficulty, but there is
always a little comfort in talking over one’s miseries with somebody;
and Bob knew that Dick would never say, “I told you so.”

Happily, the first recitation was scheduled for eleven o’clock, and
Hollister found Dick alone in his rooms working over some math problems.
He looked up smiling as the dismayed fellow entered.

“Hello, Bobby,” he greeted. “What’s the matter? You look as if life held
no further joys for you.”

Without a word, Hollister thrust the dean’s letter into Merriwell’s
hand. Dick read it through with knitted brows, and, having finished,
folded it methodically and handed it back.

“Wouldn’t that kill you dead!” he exclaimed. “Sixty per cent.! Let’s see
how we can dope that out.”

Hollister looked at him blankly.

“Dope it out!” he exclaimed. “What is there to dope out? I’m done!”

“Rot!” Dick returned emphatically. “You’re not going to give up without
an effort, are you? We’ll get you through somehow. But you’ll have to
buckle down and work like a terror.”

“I’ll work, all right,” Hollister returned, in a dispirited voice; “but
I can’t make that average. Why, I’ve got to start in and make it this
very day, man, and I haven’t the haziest notion of what the Latin lesson
is, though I did grind some on chemistry last night.”

“Never know what you can do till you try, Bobby,” Dick said cheerily.
“Why, we can’t let you be dropped, old fellow. Rather than that, I’ll
turn tutor and drag you through by the hair of your head.”

He paused and his face grew serious.

“There’s one thing sure, though,” he went on, his eyes fixed on
Hollister’s face; “you’ll have to give up football, and drop it like a
hot cake this very day.”

For an instant Hollister looked at him blankly as if he did not
comprehend what the other had said. Then he understood, and a look of
utter despair came into his eyes.

“Give it up!” he cried. “Oh, Dick, I can’t!”

“You’ve got to,” Merriwell retorted firmly. “Can’t you see that if you
don’t you’ll be dropped sure as fate? You can’t play football and study
at the same time. You’re not made that way. It’s a question of giving it
up voluntarily or of being dropped from the class and, consequently,
from the varsity.”

Hollister groaned. How could he give up the thing he loved better than
anything else in the world! What would college life be without it? He
almost felt as if he’d rather be dropped than voluntarily give it up,
except that such a course would mean the same thing in the end.

He looked at Merriwell pleadingly.

“But I could still play in the games, even if I didn’t show up for
practice, couldn’t I?” he urged.

Dick shook his head.

“You couldn’t,” he said decidedly. “You’ve got to the point when you
have to give every atom of your mind to your work. The minute you begin
to think about playing in a game your attention will be distracted. You
won’t be able to study. It can’t be done, Bob. You don’t suppose I’m
anxious to see you leave the team, do you? Great Scott, man! I don’t
know what we’ll do without you. But it’s your only chance. Don’t you see
that?”

Hollister saw it only too clearly. He realized perfectly the truth of
Merriwell’s words. He knew quite well that if he were going to play in a
game he would be thinking for days beforehand about it. Unconsciously
his mind would wander and he would cease giving the proper attention to
his books. Bitterly he regretted the moment when he first began to let
things slide. If he had only not let his enthusiasm for the game get the
better of him he would be all right now.

And suddenly into his mind came the thought of Jarvis Blake and his
treachery. The fellow would triumph now and would very likely get his
place on the varsity. He could not bear the idea.

“If I quit the team Blake will be put on,” he said aloud. “I couldn’t
stand that, Dick. It’s what he’s been after right along. Last night—I
heard——”

A gleam of combat came into Merriwell’s eyes and his chin squared.

“I thought so,” he said emphatically. “I had a notion that was his game.
But it won’t work if I can put a spoke in his wheel. There are a couple
of other subs who are as good as he is. I rather think one of them will
take your place.”

“If you could only work it, Dick!” Hollister said eagerly. “Of course,
I’m not trying to blame him for what’s happened. That’s all up to me.
But I do know that he did his best to have me dropped, and if he got my
place in the line I couldn’t stand it.”

“Don’t worry,” Merriwell said quickly. “I don’t think he will.”

He paused and looked Hollister keenly in the eyes.

“Well,” he said slowly, “have you made up your mind?”

Still Bob wavered, unwilling to take the step which, deep down in his
heart, he knew would have to come.

Merriwell showed no signs of impatience. With rare sympathy, he realized
what a struggle must be going on in the man’s mind. The thought of all
it would mean to him if, for any reason, _he_ were forced to give up
football was appalling, and he knew that Hollister was even more devoted
to the game.

“I know how hard it is, Bobby,” he said quietly. “But after a little
you’ll come to see that it’s the only thing for you to do. Football—any
game, in fact—is a splendid thing when it keeps its proper proportions
as something incidental to the college course. But the minute it begins
to dominate a man, as it has done you to the exclusion of everything
else, it’s time to cut it out. You didn’t come to Yale to play football,
but to get your degree and the other benefits which a college course
gives a man. Think how you’d feel if you were dropped at the very
beginning of your senior year. Think of the humiliation of being thrown
out with such a record as you have made this fall.”

“I can’t even play in the Yale-Princeton game on Saturday?” Hollister
questioned sadly.

Dick shook his head firmly.

“No, sir,” he returned with emphasis. “You give me your promise never to
play football again while you’re in college, and I’ll do my very best to
pull you through in your studies. How about it?”

“All right,” Hollister said, in a low voice. “I promise.”

“Good,” Dick smiled. “That’s the stuff. Now let’s get down to business.”

He glanced swiftly at the clock.

“An hour and a half before Latin,” he murmured. “We’ve got to get busy.”

Before Hollister knew what he was doing, Dick had him sitting at the
table, the open book before him, and together they proceeded to go
through the day’s allotment of Horace.

Merriwell did his work thoroughly, translating slowly and stopping to
explain the derivation of every word about which Bob had the least
doubt. He had a natural gift of making things plain, and in an hour’s
time Hollister had acquired a pretty good notion of what it was all
about. Then, after a hurried review of the chemistry lesson, they
sallied forth to the lecture room.

“I think you’ll do in the Horace, old fellow,” Dick assured him. “Just
keep your head and take it slowly, and you’ll come out all right.”

Such proved to be the case. About halfway through the hour, Professor
Goodhue called Hollister’s name in a rather weary tone of voice, fully
expecting a repetition of the absolute failures for which the fellow had
become noted.

To his amazement, Hollister arose slowly and gave a very good rendering
of the passage, even to construing accurately the few words the dazed
professor asked him.

“That will do, Mr. Hollister,” the latter managed to say when Bob had
finished. “Very good indeed. I should—er—like to congratulate you on the
extraordinary improvement in your work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bob murmured, his face a bit red.

On the campus outside, Dick slapped him on the back.

“Well done!” he exclaimed. “That was more than sixty, all right. You’ll
do. Now for the lab. That’s going to be harder, for we didn’t give any
time to it.”

As they mounted the steps to the chemical laboratory, Bob happened to
catch a glimpse of Blake’s face, and the look of ill-tempered annoyance
he saw there was an added incentive to renewed endeavor. The big, blond
fellow was evidently not at all pleased with the surprising turn things
had taken.

By some fortunate chance, Hollister was not called upon at all in
chemistry. Perhaps the professor had grown weary of his constant
failures and did not think it worth while. At all events, it gave Bob a
little respite. There were no other recitations that day, and by
to-morrow, he hoped, with Dick’s assistance, to have made up a little of
the lost time.

Merriwell realized perfectly that what he had undertaken was not going
to be any easy task. There was no fun at all in coaching a fellow who
had done absolutely no work for almost six weeks, and was, consequently,
totally ignorant of what had been gone over so far that term. But this
fact did not deter him in the least. He knew that it was the only way by
which Hollister could be saved, and, though it meant that every spare
moment must be devoted to tutoring Bob for a few weeks at least, he was
fond enough of the fellow to go to that extreme.

Hollister’s announcement at the training table that he had to leave the
team was one of the hardest things he had ever done. It had the effect
of a bombshell on the assembled players.

Instantly the room was in an uproar. The fellows all crowded around him,
unable to believe their ears.

“You can’t leave, Bobby!”

“Cut it out, old man, and have another think.”

“Stop your kidding!”

“Thunderation! What’ll we do without you?”

These and a dozen other incredulous exclamations were hurled at the
wretched fellow, but Bob persisted in his resolve; and when the men saw
that he was really in earnest, they were in despair.

All, that is, save Jarvis Blake. Dick, his eye on the fellow, noticed
the sudden expression of amazed incredulity which flashed into his face,
to be followed instantly by a look of joy and unmistakable triumph.
Evidently he had not expected this turn of affairs, but he was none the
less more than satisfied with it.

“I’ll put a spoke in your wheel, my bucko,” Dick muttered fiercely. “All
your dirty scheming won’t do you a bit of good.”

He put in an hour’s work with Hollister after dinner, and, laying out
enough to keep the man busy that afternoon, he got out the car and drove
down to the field.

His first move was to seek out Tempest and Bill Fullerton, and for ten
minutes the three men remained in close confab. When they separated
there was a look of extreme satisfaction on Dick’s face. He hurried into
the athletic house to get into his togs.

A little later, when the men were all assembled on the field, Don
Tempest held up his hand for silence.

“You fellows all know that Hollister has been obliged to leave the
team,” he said quietly. “You also know why. It’s something which can’t
be helped, but I’m sure you will agree with me that it hits us pretty
hard and will make a big hole in the line. I’m sorry it couldn’t have
been postponed until after the game on Saturday, but since that was
impossible we’ll just have to make the best of it. In regard to filling
his place——”

He hesitated and his eyes wandered over the eager, expectant faces of
the subs. Many of them knew that there was no possible chance of their
being picked for the important position, but there were three or four
who evidently had hopes.

Jarvis Blake had more than hopes, if one could judge from the look of
assurance on his face. There was plainly small doubt in his mind that he
would be the lucky man, and Dick watched him with a distinct feeling of
satisfaction.

“In talking it over,” Tempest continued, “we have decided that Keran had
better try out for end until further notice.”

Blake gave a gasp of dismay. The blow was so sudden and so absolutely
unexpected that, for an instant, he could not believe his ears.

Then his face turned scarlet, his eyes flashed, and he took a quick step
forward. Dick was watching him quietly.

“I think——” began the big, blond fellow, speaking with evident
difficulty.

Tempest eyed him coldly.

“I said Keran,” he remarked significantly; “Phil Keran.”

There was an undercurrent of contempt in his voice which cut Blake like
the lash of a whip and made him step back involuntarily. Before he could
recover his customary poise, the fellows spread out in the regular
formation, Keran, grinning from ear to ear, in the coveted place at
right end.

Blake had never been so furious in his life. He could not understand how
it had all come about. For a moment he was tempted to leave the field.
He had even turned and was about to stride off without a word, when he
realized that such a move would be folly. He would gain nothing by it,
and his chances for ever accomplishing his end would be totally ruined.

With a sullen scowl on his face, he walked over to his place on the
scrub. After all, Keran was only in the varsity on sufferance. He might
not make good, and then Blake’s chance would come.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII

                       THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME.


It must not be supposed that Bob Hollister’s course was an easy one. It
was, on the contrary, desperately hard. A dozen times a day bitter
thoughts and regrets for what he had given up assailed him, but he
managed to thrust these aside, and, with Dick’s help, he kept doggedly
at his work, encouraged by the very evident progress he made in his
studies.

The story of his renunciation of football and his steady application to
his books seemed to have become known to the faculty. Certain it was
that, one and all, they realized what an effort he was making to stick
with the class, and most of them did their best to help him along.

As for Merriwell, every minute he could spare was devoted to coaching
Bob. The latter almost lived in Dick’s rooms. Every evening they went
over the work for the next day together, Dick patiently explaining every
point, bolstering up Hollister’s failing courage, making a regular
hermit of himself for the sake of the other man’s future.

In the afternoons Bob spent his time grinding on the back work, for
occasionally the professors had an annoying way of having little quizzes
which covered the subjects they had gone over that term.

That was the hardest part of it all, to sit alone with a book before
him, knowing all the time that the others were out on the field where he
longed to be more than anywhere else in the world. At first he had to
grit his teeth and exercise the utmost self-control to keep his mind
from wandering; but, after a little, it came easier, though he was never
wholly resigned.

At last came the day of the Yale-Princeton game. Hollister wondered
desperately whether he would have to stay away from the field that
afternoon. It seemed as if that would be more than he could bear. In the
morning he broached the subject to Merriwell.

“About the game this afternoon, Dick,” he began hesitatingly. “It don’t
seem as if I could study while that’s going on. Couldn’t I go down and
watch it, just this once?”

Dick looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you think that’s a good idea, Bobby?” he asked slowly. “Wouldn’t you
feel worse on the field, not being able to play, than you would if you
stayed away?”

“Gee, no!” exclaimed Hollister. “Even if I don’t play, there’d be some
satisfaction watching it.”

“Come on, then,” Merriwell said quickly. “You’ve certainly done well
enough to take the afternoon off.”

Thus it was that Hollister sat in the tonneau of Dick’s car as the
_Wizard_ tore down to the field that afternoon. Tempest and Blair
Hildebrand sat with him, Rudolph Rose crumpled his long legs in the body
of the car at their feet, while Teddy Baxter clung precariously to the
running board.

Hollister felt a thrill of the old joyful enthusiasm as the car whirled
through the streets. Once more he seemed to be one of them, and, as he
entered the grounds and swept his eye over the already filling stands,
he sniffed the air like a war horse that scents combat from afar.

But once in the dressing room, the reaction came. He saw the others
strip and hurriedly don their togs; listened to their eager, excited
discussion of their chances for victory; watched them troop out in a
body and lope across to the gridiron; and, as he followed slowly,
dispiritedly, he realized with a bitter pang that he was out of it.
Instead of plunging into the contest with tingling blood and every sense
alert, doing his best for his Alma Mater, straining every nerve to win a
victory for the blue, he must stand on the side lines and just watch.

The thrilling, deep-toned cheers of the excited thousands would ring in
his ears as before, but they would have a different sound. They would be
meant for others, not for him. Somehow, he felt that if he could only
have played in this one game he could be resigned about never going on
the field again. If he could only show just once more what he could
do—play just one more game for all that was in him, and perhaps help to
win a victory, it would content him.

But it was too late. He had given his word, and the team was finally
made up. With downcast eyes and bitter heart, he entered the inclosure
and, walking past the grand stands, dropped down on the side lines with
the subs. At least he would watch the game from the field. He couldn’t
bear sitting in a stand. He had never done that in all the time he had
first come out for the team.

The stands were filled to overflowing, a sea of eager, enthusiastic
faces rising, tier upon tier, from the field. Flags fluttered by the
hundreds, blue, mostly, but with a liberal sprinkling of the orange and
black. The hum of many voices sounded like the drone of a gigantic hive
of bees. The flash of many faces turned impatiently toward the closed
gates as the hour approached.

At last the gates were flung open and the teams appeared. Princeton came
first, and cantered briskly across the field. They were greeted by a
round of applause from their adherents.

Then Yale appeared, and the stands rose to them with a yell which sent a
thrill through Hollister’s heart—a thrill followed swiftly by a stab of
pain. Perhaps Dick had been right when he said it would be harder here
than if he had stayed away.

Yale won the toss, and, there being a rather brisk wind blowing, chose
the protected goal and gave the enemy the ball. The fellows swiftly took
their places to await the kick off. Presently the whistle sounded, and
from that moment Bob Hollister was oblivious to time and space, the
shouting crowd, the excited subs—everything, in short, except the
progress of the contest before him.

Almost at once he saw that Princeton had an unusually strong team. He
had expected something of the sort, for all reports agreed in stating
that it was the best eleven the New Jersey college had turned out in
several years; but Hollister had not thought it would be quite so good
as it now appeared.

With knitted brows, he watched the progress of the ball down the field
toward Yale’s goal. There was no doubt in his mind that the
orange-and-black fellows had made the most of some very efficient
coaching. Their teamwork was splendid, and every now and then they made
use of some novel play which caused Hollister to bestow upon them a
sincere, if somewhat grudging, admiration.

But presently he ceased to watch their good points and bent an anxious,
scrutinizing eye upon his former comrades. Something seemed to be the
matter with their playing. A subtle, impalpable something, hard to
define, but plainly evident to the quick mind of the man on the side
line.

There was a slight absence of snap, of unity, which perhaps another
might not have seen. Hollister was entirely too modest to realize that
his absence from the team could make any difference. He did not see that
the lack of his swift, perfect brainwork, his cheering encouragement,
would be felt to any appreciable extent. And yet, that was actually the
case.

Merriwell was playing a perfect game, Buckhart was at his best; but they
could not carry the whole team. Don Tempest, still not perfectly strong
after his long illness, and feeling the lack of the practice which he
had lost, did not make a very good showing. While Phil Keran, though he
was a good steady player and did his best, could never take the place of
Hollister, one of the best ends Yale had ever had.

Slowly the ball was forced back. Nearer and nearer it came to the goal.
Bob’s heart leaped into his throat and he could not swallow. They must
not make a goal—they must not!

Then the line stiffened, the advance ceased. Two downs brought barely
five yards gain. Not daring to risk another forward pass, Princeton
tried a kick from the field.

The ball soared over the heads of the scrimage line. To Hollister,
tense, breathless, it seemed as if it would pass over the bar, and he
groaned aloud as the orange-and-black line surged forward in its wake.

The groan changed to a gasp of joy as the pigskin carromed from an
upright and a tall, lithe figure leaped into the air, clutched it and
dropped back.

It was Merriwell. Bob could have shouted aloud in his relief had he not
been too intent on watching the outcome. For an instant the men were so
involved in a tangle of flying figures and waving arms that he could not
see what had become of the ball.

Then, all at once, a man darted around the end, closely followed by two
others, and sped over the ground in an oblique course toward the farther
side line.

In an instant Bob recognized him as Crowfoot, and realized that Dick had
in some way passed the ball swiftly to the Indian, who, assisted by
Elwell and Kenny, the quarter back, was covering the ground like a
streak of light.

Kenny was bowled over instantly; Elwell met his Waterloo a minute
afterward; but by the time Crowfoot was tackled by one of the Princeton
guards he had covered thirty yards and the ball was back out of danger.

Then the whistle sounded and Hollister realized that the first quarter
was over.

After the brief three-minute interval, Yale started in with a rush,
carrying the ball down the field in a series of brilliant plays which
did full credit to every man on the team.

They seemed to have recovered from their strange lassitude and were
evidently determined to utterly annihilate their opponents.

But that was not to be done easily. Oddly enough, Princeton blandly
refused to be annihilated. And so the hard-fought battle continued. Back
and forth surged the lines of tattered, gasping, breathless men. At one
moment it would seem that Yale had the advantage, and apparently nothing
could prevent her from scoring. Then Princeton would rally and force the
blue line slowly, but surely, back from the danger zone.

To the man on the side line it was sheer agony. His trained eye saw the
weak points of his team even more swiftly than did Tempest, the captain.
His alert brain, feverishly active, took in lost opportunities which the
men on the field did not even perceive, and he was constantly thinking
of how he would have made a successful play if he had only been out
there with the rest.

Then began a series of minor accidents which played havoc with the Yale
line. First of all, Rose was knocked senseless and had to leave the
field. Then Samp Elwell twisted his ankle so that he could not stand on
it; and another sub threw off his enveloping blanket, jerked off his
sweater, and raced into the arena in response to Tempest’s peremptory
gesture.

Last of all, Phil Keran gave out, and, after a momentary hesitation,
Tempest reluctantly summoned Jarvis Blake from the side line. He was the
best man left, and, perhaps, had it not been for what he had heard from
Dick about the fellow, Tempest might have put him in before; for Blake
had always showed up well in practice.

As Hollister saw his enemy race out and take his own place at right end,
he clenched his fists so tightly that the nails cut into the flesh of
his palm. This was the worst of all. Blake was now just where he had
been scheming to get.

Then the teams lined up and Bob forgot even that. It became apparent at
once that the change had not been for the better. Princeton had been
obliged to put in only one substitute, and her advantage showed very
plainly.

Strive as the Yale line did against them, the solid phalanx of the
opposing team made its way inexorably down the field. There were
occasional rallies, to be sure, but never once did the orange and black
fail to make their required gain; and at last, with a sob in his throat,
Hollister saw the pigskin forced over the line and heard the Princeton
crowd thundering its joy.

The goal was kicked, and, before the second quarter was over, Princeton
had scored again on a drop kick, and was nine points to the good.

Things looked very black for Yale.

Hollister did not leave his place on the grass. He could not bring
himself to go back to the house with the team. He had not the heart. And
so he lay there viciously jabbing the blade of his knife into the
ground, his brow drawn into a scowl, his brown eyes full of a strange
mixture of longing and pain.

He had been watching Blake’s playing, and it had taken him only a few
moments to see how much it fell short of his own. Hollister was not in
the least conceited, but he had a keen sense of sizing a fellow up on
the field and had always viewed his own good points and shortcomings as
dispassionately as he did those of any one else.

Watching Jarvis Blake, he knew that he himself could have done better.
Blake was a good player, but he was deficient in some important
qualifications, principally initiative and speed in starting.

Time and time again, Bob saw him fail to take advantage of an
opportunity which might have meant a gain of yards to his team. Once, in
his excitement, he had shouted a warning to the substitute, only to
realize what he was doing and choke himself into silence.

The third quarter started off with a fresh swing. The rest had done all
the men good, and evidently there had been some straight talk in the
athletic house which heartened them and brought them to a realizing
sense of the gravity of their position.

The ball was forced down to within the thirty-yard line without a pause.
Hollister, watching eagerly, soon saw whose brain was dominating the
work. Almost every time the pigskin was passed to Merriwell. And, with
quite as much regularity, the brilliant senior responded nobly.

He seemed to be everywhere at once, slippery as an eel, dodging hither
and thither in a most bewildering fashion, sometimes passing the ball to
Crowfoot, or another on whom he could depend, but always making gains,
ever advancing, until Bob found himself sitting erect, his cheeks
burning and his eyes sparkling as he watched this amazing exhibition of
almost perfect football.

Would he make it? Could he possibly hold out to reach the line? Suddenly
his question was answered.

The quarter back ripped out a rapid signal which Bob could not hear
perfectly; the ball was snapped back; there was a bewildering,
lightninglike, intricate pass. Hollister gasped. It was his improved
crisscross play, the last thing he had worked out before he had left the
team.

The pigskin seemed to leap from one man to another like a thing endowed
with life. For a minute he lost track of it, and then he caught his
breath swiftly as Merriwell sprang out of the mêlée, the pigskin tucked
under his arm, and raced over the turf as if he were as fresh as the
moment he had first set foot on the field.

The Princeton crowd was taken by surprise. The pass had been so cleverly
made that most of them thought the ball was being sent around the other
end, and there was a surging rush in that direction, which left a
comparatively free field for Dick.

Too late they saw their error and trailed after him.

There were but two men between him and the coveted goal. He could easily
outdistance the first, who was a little to one side, but the full back
would have to be dodged.

As he ran, he watched the man keenly, wondering just what trick he would
have to bring into play to get away from him. The fellow stood alertly
on his toes, watching, waiting, ready to spring to one side or the
other, as the case might be.

Dick came on without slackening his speed, swerved suddenly to the
right, whirled, darted the other way, and all in such a brief moment
that to this day Princeton’s full back hasn’t the least notion of how he
was fooled. He only knew that by the time he had turned Dick was a dozen
feet away, speeding on toward the goal.

The next instant the full back gave a grunt of triumph and stretched
himself, for the Yale man suddenly staggered, tried wildly to recover,
and then fell full length to the sod.

A groan of horror went up from the stands, followed by deathlike
stillness.

Then, to the amazement of the onlookers, they saw that, instead of lying
where he had fallen, Merriwell spun end over end, and the next instant
he was on his feet again. But he ran with an appreciable limp.

It was a tense moment. The full back was gaining. Slowly, but surely, he
crept up and the distance between the two lessened. Dick ran with more
and more apparent effort, and it was plain to all that he must be
suffering tortures.

Now the full back’s fingers touched him, but could find no hold on the
smooth canvas. The next instant they clutched his waist, and clung there
with a firm, dragging grip.

Five yards more! Could he ever make it?

Struggling, dragging, straining every nerve and muscle, Merriwell flung
himself over the line; and, as he did so, a great sigh arose from the
spectators, merging into a crashing burst of sound, for they realized
that the ball was over.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VIII

                    A BROKEN PROMISE AND A VICTORY.


Despite his sprained ankle, Merriwell kicked the goal, straight and
true, and the teams lined up again. But that run had been a last
desperate attempt to wrest victory from defeat.

Unable to count longer on Dick, who, though he was still able to play,
could not be expected to continue the extraordinary efforts which had
made him an object of wonder to every man on the field, the team went to
pieces as nearly as any Yale team can.

They played despairingly, doggedly, disputing every inch on the part of
the Princeton organization, but for all that being borne slowly down the
field.

The ginger was gone out of them. They had no life, and their playing had
become more or less machinelike.

Bob Hollister realized this swiftly. He knew the signs only too well.

“They can’t do it!” he almost sobbed. “They can’t beat them that way!”

If he could only go into the game. Just for that last quarter. Surely it
could not do any harm. He must do it. He could not sit there and see the
fellows beaten.

The third quarter was nearly over when he leaped to his feet, his face
white and determined, and ran swiftly toward the house. Dashing inside,
he encountered Keran, his face a network of scowling lines, his fists
clenched, and one foot tied up in bandages.

“Gimme your clothes!” Hollister exclaimed. “Quick!”

“What——” gasped Keran.

“Blazes!” ripped out the excited fellow. “Your clothes, I tell you! Get
’em off! Mine aren’t here!”

With an exclamation of joy, the other realized what he meant to do.
Snatching off his jacket and jersey, he tossed them to Bob, who was
already half undressed.

“Glory be!” he cried. “You’re going to play! You’ll brace ’em up!”

Hollister made no answer. His eyes were gleaming. One thought only was
in his mind. He must get into those togs and back to the field before
the beginning of the last quarter. He meant to play if he never did
another thing in all his life. His promise to Merriwell was forgotten.
He thought of nothing but that line of gasping, tattered men out there,
striving vainly against black defeat.

With eager, trembling fingers, Keran helped him lace his jacket. Rudolph
Rose staggered up from where he lay full length on a bench, and,
dropping down on the floor, laced up his shoes. Neither of them spoke a
word, for words were unnecessary. They understood.

In a miraculously short time Bob was ready, and, snatching up a nose
guard, he tore out of the house.

Bill Fullerton, his face black as a thundercloud, was talking to Tempest
on the side lines. The brief intermission was almost over as Bob dashed
up to them.

“I want to go in, Don!” he exclaimed.

Both men looked at him in astonishment.

“I thought——” Tempest began.

“Never mind that,” Hollister interrupted. “I’ve got to go in! That’s the
only way. The fellows have gone all to pieces since Merriwell hurt
himself!”

Still the captain of the varsity hesitated. He knew quite well of the
promise Hollister had made Merriwell that he would not play football
again during his college course.

“I swear to you, Don, by all that’s holy,” Bob said earnestly, “that if
you let me play out this game I’ll never touch football again! It’s only
fifteen minutes, Don! Just fifteen little minutes! If I sit here
watching it, I shall go mad. Let me play, Don.”

His pleading voice quivered with the emotion which was tearing him.

Tempest was in somewhat of a quandary. He wanted to put Hollister in,
for he felt that it was barely possible that Bob might succeed in
putting spirit into the jaded, discouraged men. He was fresh, too, and
wrought up to a white heat of enthusiasm. It would be strange if he did
not accomplish something. Don glanced at Fullerton questioningly.

The coach nodded emphatically.

“It’s the only thing that can possible save the day,” he said decidedly.
“Better let him in.”

“Who——”

“Blake, of course!” Fullerton said tersely. “He’s rotten!”

Hollister’s face lit up joyfully as he listened to this brief
conversation. Then the signal came, and there was a general movement to
get out on the field.

Tempest walked rapidly to Blake’s side and said a few words to him in a
low tone. The big, blond fellow flushed scarlet and darted a venomous
glance at Bob. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked
rapidly toward the athletic house, his face sullen, and the angry flush
still in his cheeks.

Hollister followed the other men with a springy step and a heart fairly
bursting with joy. At last he was back with the boys. It seemed almost
as if he had never left them. He did not worry over the fact that, after
these brief, fleeting minutes were over, he could never play again. He
only knew that the team was in a bad way and needed him, and he resolved
that he would play as he had never played before.

One after the other the fellows recognized him and greeted him with
short, hurried words, which were an odd blending of surprise, joy, and
relief; but all had such a ring of sincerity and truth that Hollister
was more touched than he would have thought possible.

He dared not meet Merriwell’s glance. He had broken his promise, and he
was not sorry; he hated to think of what Dick’s opinion of him would be
from this time forth.

Then, as he crouched in his place, he forgot Merriwell, forgot
everything but the fact that he was back in the line again.

“Are you all ready?” asked the referee.

There was no reply. Only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights
were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible,
tightening of nerves and muscles.

Then the whistle shrilled.

Those who watched the game that day said afterward that, in all their
experience, they had never seen such an amazing rallying on the part of
any team as was shown by the Yale eleven during that last quarter.

Three minutes before they had gone off the field with dragging steps and
gloomy, discouraged faces. The followers of the blue, who crowded the
stands, felt a wave of despair sweep over them as they thought of what
might happen in that last fifteen minutes. Many of them fully expected
to see Princeton make another touchdown, if not two, and they waited
with perfunctory, mechanical cheers, and swiftly ebbing spirit for the
beginning of the end.

But the sudden, totally unexpected appearance of Hollister seemed to
work almost a miracle.

Bob responded nobly. Never had he put up such a game before. Tireless,
never failing, swift as lightning, with his brain in splendid working
order, he seemed to be all over the field at once. Dodging, slipping
through holes in the line where one would not have thought any advance
possible, blocking, cutting off opposing runners, and interfering for
runners of his own team, it seemed as if all the pent-up, thwarted
energy of the last few days of deprivation was being poured out now in
this brief, brilliant exhibition.

His work thrilled the other men with a new hope, and stirred them to
fresh endeavor, so that they were with him heart and soul; and the
pigskin was rushed down the field swiftly and irresistibly, until the
forty-yard line was reached.

Here the orange-and-black fellows seemed to recover, and, rallying,
presented such a solid line that two downs brought barely six yards; and
Yale had to resort to a drop kick, which sent the ball forward thirty
yards, but gave it to Princeton.

Then the great struggle of the day began. Inspired by the brilliant
Hollister, Yale made a strenuous, dogged effort to score, while her
opponents were equally determined that she should not. Back and forth
surged the lines of men, never reaching within kicking distance of
either goal, and using up the precious minutes in fiercely contesting
every inch of progress.

It was a battle royal, and the spectators were so thrilled with interest
and excitement that they almost forgot to cheer.

At last, when there were but six minutes left to play, Kenny decided to
make use of one of the most intricate and most daring of the
combinations of double plays and crisscrossing which the coaches had
worked out from Hollister’s suggestion. It was only to be used as a last
resort, and Kenny decided that the time had come.

“Sixty-seven—twenty-four—thirty-two——”

Kenny paused. Merriwell sprang back a yard. Buckhart crept a few feet
in.

“Fifty-four—seventeen!” finished Kenny swiftly.

The ball was snapped, Brad ran forward three strides, Kenny turned, and
the pigskin flew back. The next instant Merriwell had the ball, and sped
toward the right end of the line. The quarter crossed in front of him;
the tackle and guard thrust back their opponents; the Princeton line
surged forward with a rush.

Hollister plunged forward, too, as if he were intent only on interfering
in Merriwell’s behalf; but he had a more important duty than that to
perform. Swiftly, before their opponents realized what was being done,
he and Dick changed places, Merriwell was blocking with all his might,
while Hollister, the ball clutched tightly to him, sped round, shot
through and out onto the field, leaving a mass of waving legs and arms
many yards behind.

Joy was the supreme sensation in Bob’s breast. Only the Princeton full
back threatened. The ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his
breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal posts loomed down
the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the best
moment that life could give.

Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the
stands, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther out from
the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Princeton full back had been
deceived by the play, and had gone farther up the field for a kick, and
now down he came at full speed.

Hollister seemed to hesitate and falter. The full back prepared to
tackle. His broad back was bent far over, his sturdy legs squared
themselves, and, when Bob was almost within his reach, he dove forward.

There was a sudden gasp from the spectators, a breathless hush, and then
a thunderous roar of joy, as Hollister leaped high in the air, cleared
the hooking arms, stumbled, got his balance again, and ran on, free, the
ball still cupped in the curve of his arm.

The momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other
pursuers almost to Bob’s heels.

And now the plucky end began to feel the effects of his strenuous work.
His breath came irregularly, his throat was parching, his legs ached
with every bound, but still he never wavered. Behind him sounded the
thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he stumble. Every
second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Presently he gave up
trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs
seemed bursting.

Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he fancied he
felt a touch—just the lightest fingering—and, gathering all his
remaining strength, he increased his pace for a few steps.

The ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.

“One more,” he thought. “Only one more!”

The great stands were hoarse with shouting, for here ended the game.

Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line; nearer and nearer crept the
pursuers. Once more Hollister called upon his strength, and tried to
draw away, but it was useless. And, with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly around his waist.

One—two—three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy
sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter
about him like bands of steel, and settled lower and lower until his
legs were clasped and he could move no farther. Despairingly he thrust
the ball out at arm’s length, and tried to throw himself forward; the
trampled turf rose to meet him, and then blackness came.

Bob’s first waking thought was that he must be back on the rocky shores
of Maine, where he had spent the past summer. Surely those were breakers
which roared and thundered in his ears. Then he opened his eyes, and
found that he was lying on the sod, a sweater under his head, and
several vaguely familiar faces swimming above him.

A moment later he knew that it was not surf, but the wild yelling and
cheering of excited, enthusiastic thousands. Back and forth rolled the
mighty torrents of sound, breaking and crashing in reverberations.

Suddenly there was a pause, and then a fresh outburst, this time
deliberate and controlled:

“Rah, rah rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Hollister! Hollister!
Hollister!”

No need to tell him in so many words that the ball had gone over. This
was enough. They were cheering for him, and, as he opened his eyes
again, something like a mist came over them. Presently this cleared
away, and he found himself looking into Merriwell’s face.

“How are you feeling, old fellow?” the senior asked anxiously. “Hurt any
place? Or is it just wind you want?”

Hollister smiled.

“That’s all,” he said quickly. “Be all right in a minute.”

He hesitated for an instant.

“Say, Dick.”

Merriwell bent lower.

“Yes?” he questioned.

“I couldn’t help it, old man,” Bob said in a low tone. “I broke my
promise, and I reckon you must think me an awful rotter. I held out as
long as I could; but you needed me, Dick, and I couldn’t sit there and
see the fellows licked. But it’s the last time.”

“Do you really mean that, Bob?” Merriwell asked slowly. “Don’t you think
that the next game you see will tempt you just as you have been tempted
to-day?”

Hollister shook his head decidedly.

“No, sir!” he said emphatically. “I’m through. This is the last. I’ll be
content now to cut it out for good. I’ve shown what I could do, and——”

Another thunderous burst of cheering came from the stands.

“Hollister! Hollister! Hollister!”

“Not even for that would I break my word to you again, Merriwell. You
believe me, don’t you, old fellow?”

For an instant Dick gazed keenly into the anxious eyes of his friend.
Then his face cleared and a smile curved the corners of his mouth.

“Sure,” he said simply.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IX

                         A CHARGE OF BIRD SHOT.


It was late afternoon. Dick and several of his friends were enjoying a
brief holiday after the football season. The sun had dropped below the
line of forest trees, but its golden rays slanted through the naked
ranks of oak and chestnut and hickory, casting long, grotesque shadows
on the mottled blanket of dead leaves which covered the earth. Here and
there a white birch gleamed with startling distinctness against a dark
background of spruce or pine.

The few remaining leaves rustled crisply in the sharp breeze which came
from the distant Sound. Now and then one of them, loosened from its
hold, sailed slowly and silently downward in many erratic circles,
coming to rest at length on the thick carpet of red and yellow and
golden brown.

The tang of autumn was in the air. The sense of nature’s decay was
evident everywhere. The very smell of fall, subtle and impalpable, but
nevertheless unmistakable, was in the nostrils of the five men who
rustled, single file, along the scarcely perceptible path which wound
through the trees.

Even Lysander Cobmore, the lean, wrinkled, weatherworn farmer who led
the way, felt it in his blood, though he was not, perhaps, so acutely
conscious of it as were the four Yale men who followed him. He viewed
the coming of autumn with more or less mixed feelings. It heralded the
approach of a long season of rest and hibernation which would be welcome
after the strenuous work of the past summer. But it also meant snow and
ice and many days of bitter cold when one would not venture far from the
glowing kitchen stove. However, the crops had been successfully
harvested and were under cover, and he was content to take things easy
until the coming of the spring should start the ball rolling again.

To Dick Merriwell and his three college mates, Brad Buckhart, Eric
Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, there was almost a feeling of intoxication
in the crisp, cool air which sent their blood racing through their
veins; in the delightful, earthy, leafy smell of everything; even in the
gaunt, wintry look of the naked trees through which one could follow so
easily the whirring flight of the partridge, or the swift, low scurry of
a covey of quail.

They had escaped the trammels of work for a few days’ shooting, and were
like a party of schoolboys as they left Dick’s car, the _Wizard_, in one
of Cobmore’s barns and followed their guide with springy steps and
eagerly sniffing nostrils through the rustling woods toward the spot
where they proposed to make their headquarters.

“The house hasn’t been vacant very long, then?” Dick remarked presently.

“Three weeks gone ter-morrer since old man Hickey was buried,” returned
Cobmore, without glancing around. “Fur all he lived so long alone, you
folks’ll find everythin’ neat’s a pin. I’ve bin over twice sence young
Lawrence give me charge of it, an’ thar ain’t a thing out of place.”

“Is that Barry Lawrence?” Merriwell asked quickly.

“Yep. Know him?”

“Yes; he’s a Yale man. You remember him, don’t you, Brad? He graduated
three years ago.”

“You bet I do,” returned the Texan promptly. “Didn’t he play end on the
varsity? Nice chap, too.”

“What relation was he to Mr. Hickey?” Dick inquired.

“Nephy. Folks was sorter surprised when Hickey left everythin’ to him
an’ cut out his darter’s husband, Andy Jellison, but I kinder smelled a
rat myself, knowin’ that they wan’t on speakin’ terms sence the darter
died three years ago come next spring. They do say he treated her like a
dog, an’ she wan’t in her grave two months before he up an’ married
another woman. Andy done his best to make up with the old man, but it
wan’t no use. Reckon he was thinkin’ o’ the spondulicks the old man
would leave—he had a tidy little pile besides the place—an’ I s’pose he
was arter his share.

“Well, I remember the first time he come for a visit arter the darter
died. He driv over to my place from the village an’ put his team up in
the barn. Had a couple of grips with him an’ I nachurally thinks he’d
want help to git ’em over, but don’t you believe it. Said he’d go by
himself. I wan’t so surprised when I happens to lift up one o’ the grips
an’ finds it light’s a feather. Couldn’t have bin nothin’ in it at all,
though why he wants to lug two empty grips three miles through the
woods, goodness knows.

“Howsomever, that was his business, an’ I didn’t ask no questions,
though I couldn’t help wonderin’. He starts off about five o’clock, an’
drat my buttons if he wan’t back about sundown, cussin’, swearin’ mad.
He was a turrible profane man, was Jellison, but that night he beat the
record. He calls Hickey all the names on the calendar, and got so bad I
had to shet the kitchen door so Maria wouldn’t hear him, she bein’ a
good church member an’ pious.

“When he calms down a bit I finds that the old man wouldn’t let him in
the house. Said he never wanted to set eyes on him ag’in, an’ told him
to go to the hot place, I reckon. Andy had to stop with me that night,
an’ next mornin’ he went back to the city, where he works in a bank.

“Well, sir, all that summer he kep’ tryin’ to make up with old Hickey.
‘Bout every two weeks he’d show up for another try, but it wan’t any
use. I could ‘a’ told him he was wastin’ his time, fer when the old man
made up his mind, he stayed sot. But it wan’t none o’ my business, so I
jest let him keep on ‘till he found out hisself. As I says, he kep’
comin’ all summer long, an’ then, about this time two years gone, he giv
it up, an’ I ain’t seen him sence. I allus wondered though why in time
he kep’ packin’ them empty grips along with him; but I ain’t never
discovered it, an’ don’t reckon I ever will.”

Merriwell smiled at the old fellow’s tone of regret.

“Maybe he had left some clothes, or something like that, in the house,
which he wanted to take away,” he suggested.

Lysander Cobmore considered this for a moment in silence. Then he shook
his head slowly.

“That don’t seem nachural, some ways,” he returned. “Old man Hickey was
that set agin’ Jellison he’d ‘a’ throwed anythin’ he owned outer the
winder.”

“On account of the way he behaved to the daughter, I suppose?” Dick
mused.

Cobmore wagged his stubby chin whisker emphatically.

“That’s what,” he returned quickly. “Some said he took to runnin’ with
this other woman, an’ that’s what killed her. Waal, I ain’t sorry the
way things has turned out. Jellison ain’t the sort of man I like to have
dealings with. Tew cantankerous, you know. Now Lawrence is a nice,
pleasant-spoken young feller, an’ lets me make what I kin, lettin’ the
house to folks as is out huntin’ like you boys. ’Tain’t likely Jellison
would——”

He broke off abruptly as the crash of a gun sounded with startling
distinctness from the silent woods. The next instant came a pattering
shower of fine shot which cut the twigs and branches of the near-by
bushes, and caused each man to duck instinctively.

Merriwell was the first of the party to recover his presence of mind.

“Stop that, you lunatic!” he shouted, his face dark with anger.

“Came mighty near losing an eye,” growled Buckhart, wiping away a drop
of blood where one of the shots had grazed his face.

“Come out here and show yourself!” cried Fitzgerald, replacing the soft
felt hat which had been knocked off.

“Yes, consarn ye!” exclaimed Lysander Cobmore, shaking a lean fist
toward the woods. “What in time d’ye mean?”

There was no reply, but Merriwell’s keen ear caught a faint rustling
among the leaves.

“I’m going to see who the idiot is,” he said, in a low tone. “If we’re
to stay around here, we can’t be running the risk of being shot in the
back any minute.”

Without waiting for a reply, he darted through the undergrowth and
disappeared. Brad was at his heels, and a moment later the remainder of
the party heard a smothered exclamation, followed by the sound of
talking, in which they distinguished the tones of a strange voice.

Then the crashing through the bushes was resumed, and presently three
figures appeared in sight. Fitzgerald chuckled suddenly.

“Pipe the willie-boy, Teddy,” he said, in a low tone. “Wouldn’t that
frost you! Bet he took us for deer.”

“He looks like the kind that would,” Baxter returned, with a grin.

They watched with considerable curiosity the approach of the stranger,
who walked between Brad and Dick and was talking in a high-pitched,
excited voice.

He was small and undersized, with stooping shoulders and a rather
insignificant face. He was dressed from head to foot in khaki, which was
very palpably brand new and made him ludicrously resemble one of the
wooden dummies which tailors use to show off their goods.

Apparently he had gone into a sporting-goods establishment and purchased
everything the clerk offered, even to a revolver which hung in a leather
holster at one side of the broad belt, and a large hunting knife stuck
into the other. In one gloved hand he held a double-barrel,
sixteen-gauge shotgun which he clasped by the end of the barrel, letting
the stock drag through the leaves behind him.

“Grathious thakes!” he lisped excitedly, as he came up to the path. “I
was never tho dithurbed in all my life. I give you my word I thought ith
wath a deer, or I thould never have fired in thith world.”

Brad looked at him contemptuously.

“I should think any fool would know the difference between a deer and
five men!” he snapped. “Besides, there aren’t any deer around here; and
if there were, how in thunder did you expect to hit one with that gun?”

The stranger’s eyes widened with surprise.

“You don’t thay tho!” he exclaimed in a distressed tone. “Why, I thought
there were deer all over.”

“Did you expect to kill one with a sixteen-gauge shotgun?” Dick asked, a
twinkle in his eyes.

The hunter looked puzzled.

“What’th the matter with it?” he asked. “Theemth to me the bulletth are
big enough to kill anything.”

Fitzgerald shrieked with laughter.

“Bullets!” he cried hysterically. “He don’t know the difference between
shells and bullets!”

Merriwell and Baxter smiled broadly. In spite of his anger, the Texan
could not repress a grin. Even Lysander Cobmore chuckled dryly.

The stranger glanced from one laughing face to another, and then drew
himself up with a comical expression of dignity.

“I can’t thay I thee the point,” he remarked stiffly. “Thomthing theems
to thrike you gentlemen ath very funny.”

Fitz looked at his face and went off into another peal of laughter.

“Do you really mean to say you thought the shells you put into your gun
consisted of a single bullet?” Dick asked quietly.

“Why, I thuppothed tho,” the small man answered shortly. “I don’t know
that I thought much about it.”

He rested one hand over the barrel of his gun as if it were a walking
stick.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Merriwell said quickly. “That gun’s
loaded, isn’t it?”

“Why, no. I jutht thot it off.”

“Didn’t you have two shells in it?” Dick asked.

The stranger suddenly snatched his hand away with a look of horror.

“Bah Jove!” he cried excitedly. “You’re wight about that. Mercy thakes!
I might have thot a hole wight through my hand.”

The thought of his narrow escape seemed to trouble him considerably more
than anything which had yet occurred. Dick reached forward, and, picking
up the gun, broke it and extracted the shell.

“That’s the safest way,” he said quietly. “It’s much better not to walk
through the woods with your gun loaded.”

Holding the shell in his hand, he took out a knife and slit the
pasteboard across, exposing the contents.

“There’s what’s inside of it,” he explained, handing it to the stranger.

The latter took it gingerly and inspected it with much curiosity.

“Well, well,” he commented. “Tho thatth what it ith. A lot of little
bulletth. Quite a cute idea, ithn’t it? Giveth a chap more chance to hit
thomething, I thuppothe.”

Fitzgerald threatening another outburst, Dick abruptly changed the
subject.

“Are you stopping near here, Mr. ——”

He paused significantly.

“Jobloth,” supplied the stranger promptly. “Perthy Jobloth, of
Commonwealth Avenue, Bothton. No, I jutht came up for the day, but I
thuppoth there will be no trouble getting accomodations in the village
hotel.”

Merriwell glanced at Cobmore rather dubiously.

“Thar ain’t no hotel,” returned the farmer with twinkling eyes.

Joblots looked aghast.

“No hotel!” he gasped. “Grathiouth thaketh! Whatever thall I do? It’th
much too late to get back to the city.”

“Yep,” Cobmore said with a distinct relish. “Ain’t no train now till
mornin’. You should hev took the five-ten.”

He seemed to be extracting considerable amusement out of Mr. Percy
Joblots’ predicament.

The latter was most distressed.

“That’th what I meant to do,” he explained sadly; “but I got tho
interethted in my thooting, and the woodth looked tho lovely, that I
mithed it. My goodneth grathouth! I don’t know what to do. Whoever would
think there wath no hotel!”

He looked so utterly woebegone and crestfallen that Dick felt sorry for
him. Of course they could take him in for the night, but he wasn’t
particularly anxious to have a stranger around who was apt to be a
damper on their fun. Still the man could not stay out in the woods all
night, and it seemed foolish to insist on his going back to Lysander
Cobmore’s when their own destination was so close at hand.

He glanced questioningly at his three friends. They had quite as much
say as he had.

Buckhart shrugged his shoulders indifferently; apparently it made no
difference to him what became of Mr. Joblots. Fitz nodded emphatically,
a broad grin on his expressive face. Evidently he saw possibilities for
mirth in the presence of the stranger. Baxter seemed not to care one way
or another.

At least it would only be for one night, Dick reflected, turning to the
dapper little fellow.

“You’d better come along with us, Mr. Joblots,” he said. “We are on our
way to a farmhouse which we are going to make our headquarters for a few
days. I imagine there will be room enough for you to stay to-night.”

He glanced inquiringly at the farmer, who nodded.

“Room an’ to spare,” he said tersely, “an’ you gents had better be
gittin’ on if you want to git thar before dark.”

Percy Joblots was overjoyed.

“That-th extremely kind of you,” he said gratefully. “It relievth me
from a motht unpleathant prediciment. I really don’t know what I thould
have done but for you, bah Jove!”

“Well, that’s settled,” Dick said shortly, “and we’d better get on. My
name is Dick Merriwell, and these are my friends, Brad Buckhart, Eric
Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, all of Yale.”

“Delighted, I’m thure,” murmured Joblots, as the party resumed their way
along the path. “Of Yale! Dear me! How many dear friendth I have had
from New Haven.”

“You didn’t graduate from there yourself, by any chance, did you?”
inquired Fitz.

“No, I—er—wath educated at home by—er—tutorth,” returned the little
fellow hastily.

“Perhaps you know some one who is there now,” persisted Fitzgerald.

“Well, no, I think not. Motht of my friendth have graduated. Let me
thee, though. Do you know a chap named McCormick?”

“Yes, of course,” returned Fitz quickly. “Archie McCormick. Dandy
fellow, he is, too. Know him?”

Joblots hesitated.

“Why, I——”

He broke off abruptly as they emerged from the thicket into a wide
clearing which sloped gently down from the forest to the shores of a
beautiful little lake, whose waters, ruffled by the brisk breeze,
reflected the riotous crimson and gold of the autumn sunset until it
seemed almost like a radiant opal.

A little way down the slope to their right loomed the spreading bulk of
a commodious, weatherworn farmhouse, with big, hospitable, chimneys and
many small paned windows, each one of which reflected the sunset in
flaming crimson until it looked as if the whole house was ablaze.

“Waal, boys,” remarked Cobmore. “Here we be. This is Cranberry Lake, an’
old man Hickey’s house still stands. I reckon you feel like gittin’ a
fire started an’ cookin’ grub. It’s nigh onto supper time.”

“You’re right, there,” Fitzgerald said, smacking his lips. “This air has
given me such a thundering appetite I could pretty near eat the soles of
my shoes.”

The farmer chuckled.

“Ain’t quite that far gone, I expect,” he said. “You got somethin’ a bit
tastier than that to fall to on. Let’s git around to the front door.”

The house faced the lake, and on that side was a narrow veranda which
ran the full width of the building. As they turned the corner they were
surprised beyond measure to see a tall figure rise from the steps and
look inquiringly toward them.

The next instant Buckhart gave a sudden exclamation.

“By thunder! If it isn’t Mac! What the mischief are you doing here, old
fellow?”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X

                         AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.


Archie McCormick hesitated for the fraction of a second and then laughed
heartily.

“Well, of all the coincidences!” he exclaimed. “Dick, too, and Fitz and
Teddy! That doesn’t happen to be Barry Lawrence behind you, does it?”

Dick looked a little surprised.

“Lawrence? No,” he returned as they reached the steps. “This is Mr.
Percy Joblots, of Boston. I had an idea he was a friend of yours.”

McCormick looked frankly puzzled, and, as Dick shot a quick glance at
Joblots, he caught an odd expression of keen alertness in his eyes which
was so much at variance with their usual blank inanity that the Yale man
was puzzled. The next instant it had disappeared and the dapper fellow
stepped forward with outstretched hand.

“Delighted, I’m thure, Mr. McCormick,” he said. “I’ve heard about you
from thomebody, but at the moment I can’t for the life of me think which
of my friendth it wath.”

“Glad to meet you,” McCormick said rather shortly.

Then he turned quickly to Dick.

“I was hoping Barry might be with you,” he said. “I met him in Hartford
yesterday, and we planned to come up here for a couple of days’ gunning.
You know he owns the shack here, and he was to be here at five o’clock.
I’ve been waiting here since a little after four, but haven’t seen hide
or hair of him. I was just beginning to think of breaking through a
window and making myself as comfortable as I could for the night, when
you appeared.”

“That’s funny,” Dick said thoughtfully. “We came over with exactly that
same idea in view. Made arrangements with Cobmore here, who is
Lawrence’s agent, to take the place for the rest of the week. Did he say
anything to you about coming here himself?”

He looked at Cobmore as he spoke, and the farmer shook his head
decidedly.

“Nary a word,” he returned emphatically. “It’s news to me. He most
generally lets me know a couple of days before he wants it, so thar
won’t be nobody else here. Be you sure, young feller, it was Barry
Lawrence you made them arrangements with?”

There was a faint, but unmistakable note of incredulity in his voice
which brought the color into McCormick’s face.

“Of course it was,” he said tartly. “You don’t think I’d take it upon
myself to come here without his invitation, do you? We made all the
arrangements last night, and would have come down together, but Barry
had to go to New York this morning and wasn’t sure what train he would
make back. So we decided to meet here. He said he wouldn’t be later than
five, but I suppose something has happened to detain him. Very likely
he’ll be down later.”

“It’ll be a hang sight later, then,” the farmer grumbled, as he mounted
the steps and drew out a bunch of keys. “There ain’t no train on this
branch till te-rmorrer morning.”

“What difference does it make, anyway?” Dick said lightly. “We’ll have a
bang-up time together, and if Lawrence shows up he’ll just have to join
in with us. After getting this far I don’t feel like turning around and
going back, especially when he hasn’t even appeared on the scene.”

Cobmore turned the key in the lock and swung the door open.

“Thar you be, gents,” he said. “Make yourselves to hum. You’ve got all
the grub you need to-night, an’ ter-morrer I’ll send Jake over with milk
and butter an’ a few eggs. I got to be gittin’ back, or the old lady’ll
raise my hair.”

They bade him good night and he disappeared into the rapidly falling
shadows, while the young fellows trooped riotously into the house.

On a stand in the hall they found a candle and matches, which they lit
at once and commenced a tour of inspection.

It was a typical New England farmhouse of the better class, rather more
spacious, perhaps, than the majority, and certainly more rambling. The
original central building, square and severely plain, had been added to
from time to time, a room here, a wing there, until the size of the
house had been more than doubled.

This effect was heightened by the long kitchen extension protruding at
the rear, which was connected, through the milk room and woodsheds, to
the big barn behind, so that the whole mass of buildings, all
weatherworn to a harmonious gray, had quite an imposing appearance.

The explorers passed through a room on the right of the hall, which
seemed to have been used as a sitting room, and into the dining room
behind, which had evidently been the original kitchen. There was a huge
chimney here which was not plastered up as it is in many old houses, but
gaped wide, a glorious, cavernous opening so vast that it took up almost
the entire end of the room, and could accommodate five-foot logs with
ease. The hearth, which extended far out into the room, was made of
square stone slabs of varying sizes, all of which had been worn smooth
by the feet of many generations.

“Gee! What a dandy fireplace!” Fitzgerald exclaimed, as he paused before
it in admiration. “The late Mr. Hickey certainly had good taste. Can’t
you imagine toasting your feet here of a cold winter’s night, with the
wind howling around outside and a regular blizzard raging?”

“We’ll have to try it after supper,” Dick said. “We can’t scrape up a
blizzard for you, Fitz, but I expect it will be cold enough for a fire,
all the same.”

“You bet your boots,” Buckhart put in. “I’m cold already.”

“My goodneth, yeth!” agreed Joblots, shivering in his resplendant
hunting suit. “No furnace heat, I thuppoth.”

Fitz snickered, and they passed on to the kitchen, which proved to be
fitted up with a modern range and all the conveniences. In fact, the
whole house was comfortably furnished to the smallest detail, and
everything was so clean and neat and attractive that the fellows were
highly elated at their good fortune.

“It’s too comfortable altogether,” Baxter said, as they congregated in
the kitchen, unpacking the supplies they had brought along. “We won’t
feel as if we were camping out at all.”

“You have my full permission to spread a blanket out in the grass, my
child, if this is too rich for your blood,” Fitz remarked as he perched
himself on the table and proceeded to slice bacon. “Me for the comforts
of home, though, when they’re around. Camping out is all very nice when
you’ve got to; but I fail to see the fun in waking up so stiff you can
hardly move, with a cold in your head, sand all through your clothes,
and covered from head to foot with nasty, itching bites from black flies
or mosquitoes.”

“Oh, come off, little one!” Buckhart put in. “It’s clear you’re not wise
to the real joys of camping out when you talk like that. Who cares for
such little things as black flies and sand when you’re lying on a bed of
balsam boughs, wrapped up in a good blanket, with your feet to the fire
and three or four good chums around to talk to or not, as you like?
Nothing but the stars above your head, no walls to keep you from
breathing all of God’s clean air you can get into your lungs. I tell
you, tender one, that’s the best sort of a life to live. You hear me
gently warble!”

“Sounds good,” Fitz retorted airily; “but how about the times when there
aren’t any stars above your head and when God’s clean rain washes you
off that nice balsam bed and gives you a bath when you’d a heap sight
rather stay dirty. Not for this child! I have a foolish preference for a
roof over me and some kind of a mattress, even if it’s only corn husks,
to sleep on.”

Buckhart was about to make an emphatic rejoinder when he caught Dick’s
laughing eyes.

“You’re wasting your breath, old fellow,” the latter said quickly. “Fitz
is awfully fond of hearing himself talk, but don’t ever ask him to go
camping if you don’t expect to be taken up.”

“Slander,” retorted the slim chap; “vile slander!”

He dived into the basket of provisions and brought forth a bottle
wrapped in a newspaper.

“Pickles!” he exclaimed, holding it up. “Joy of my heart! How blessed of
you, Richard, to remember my fondness——”

He stopped abruptly as his quick eye caught something on the printed
page which was around the bottle. For a moment there was silence. Then
his eyes widened alarmingly and his whole face took on an expression of
mock horror as he fixed an accusing glare on the placid countenance of
Archie McCormick.

“Oh, gay deceiver!” he exclaimed severely. “Oh, sly fox! Oh, foolish
mortal to think you could keep a secret from the sharp eyes of Desperate
Desmond, the Demon Detective of—er—Duluth.”

McCormick grinned.

“Discovered!” he moaned. “And I thought I had covered me tracks so well!
Out with it, Dessy. Keep me no longer in suspenders.”

Fitzgerald rolled his eyes ceilingward.

“All day long have I felt a presentiment of approaching evil,” he
groaned. “This morning a perfectly black cat winked at me——”

“The saucy thing!” interrupted Baxter. “I hope it wasn’t a lady cat.”

“Winked at me,” continued Fitz, frowning at him; “and that is always a
bad omen. But I never thought of this. Even when you announced your trip
to Hartford two days ago upon a most flimsy pretext, I did not suspect,
but now I know.”

He paused and glared again at McCormick who was grinning from ear to
ear. By this time the others were rather curious; Percy Joblots, in
particular, sat gaping in astonishment, apparently not knowing quite how
to take the erratic Fitzgerald.

“Spit it out, why don’t you?” demanded Buckhart. “You’ll throw a fit if
you don’t.”

Fitz swallowed hard and rolled his eyes again.

“It’s my sympathetic nature struggling with an innate sense of justice,”
he explained. “But justice triumphs. I know now why you made that
mysterious trip to Hartford. On this scrap of paper placed
providentially before my eyes—redeemed thus from the ignomy of being a
mere wrapper of plebeian pickles, I see a horrible—an appalling—thing.”

He paused again, dramatically, and Buckhart, exasperated beyond
endurance, made a sudden dive for him. The slim chap leaped from the
table and slipped around behind it.

“Peace, creature!” he declaimed. “Listen to my news. The Second National
Bank of Hartford was robbed last night of thirty thousand dollars in
cold cash!”

For a moment there was silence. Then a roar of laughter went up.

“You’re pinched, Mac,” Dick gasped. “Desperate Desmond has found you
out.”

“Yes, bucko,” the Texan exclaimed; “better confess and divvy up the
swag.”

McCormick flushed a little, and the smile on his pleasant face grew a
bit forced.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said, in a bantering tone. “I didn’t
know he was so smart.”

At that moment Merriwell, happening to glance at Percy Joblots, noticed
that he was watching McCormick covertly, but with a strange intentness.
In his eyes was that curious look of keenness which Dick had seen once
before that night.

But even as he looked, the expression disappeared and the dapper
fellow’s face resumed its customary repose.

“But, I thay!” he exclaimed, turning to Fitzgerald. “Thurely you don’t
weally mean that?”

The slim chap choked and turned red, but his face was quite serious.

“Isn’t it an awful thing?” he questioned sadly. “I don’t think I shall
ever recover from the shock.”

Merriwell noticed McCormick’s distress, and it suddenly occurred to him
that Archie’s only brother had been sentenced unjustly to a term in Sing
Sing for embezzlement. Naturally the youth would think of him whenever
the subject of bank robberies was broached, and he decided that the joke
had gone a little too far.

“Stop your nonsense, Fitz,” he said quickly, “and fry that bacon. You’ve
been idling there quite long enough.”

“But how about this robbery?” persisted Buckhart, who had become
interested. “Did they get away?”

“See for yourself,” Fitzgerald returned, tossing the paper to him. “I
have work to do.”

Brad caught the scrap of newspaper and carried it to the lamp.

“Thirty thousand dollars,” he mumbled. “Regular professional
job—confederate—traced to——By thunder, boys! They were traced to
Middleberry. What do you think of that? Traced to Middleberry and then
lost track of.”

Middleberry being the nearest railroad town and not more than twelve
miles away, this announcement created considerable interest. Every one
desired to learn all the particulars, which were meager enough; and then
they began to speculate on where the robbers would naturally hide
themselves. The country thereabouts was sparsely settled, many of the
farms having been abandoned, and the thick woods offered plenty of
chances for secure retreats.

Fitz was quite excited over the possibility of their coming upon the
thieves and had even decided how he would spend his portion of the
reward, when the ravishing odor of frying bacon, combined with the
equally alluring fragrance of the coffee, drove all other thoughts out
of their heads; and presently they settled down to supper with appetites
which only a long tramp through the woods in the crisp, bracing air of
mid-November can give, and for a time conversation languished, while
everything eatable in sight was disposed of with remarkable rapidity and
thoroughness.

“There!” sighed Fitzgerald, with a searching look at the empty dishes.
“No more worlds to conquer.”

“Thunder, little one!” exploded the Texan. “You sure aren’t looking for
anything more to eat! You’ve stowed away twice as much as any man here.
Where do you put it all?”

“Where do you suppose?” demanded the slim chap. “I’ve got a good healthy
appetite, that’s all. I notice you haven’t been exactly backward
yourself.”

Dick sprang up and began gathering the dishes together.

“You fellows go ahead and start the fire in the next room while Mac and
I wash up,” he said. “There’s a lot of big logs out in the woodshed.”

Brad, Fitz and Baxter promptly departed thither, while McCormick filled
the dish pan with water from the kettle and Merriwell dumped his armful
of dishes into it. Percy Joblots hovered about as if he did not know
exactly what to do.

“Ithn’t there thomething I can do?” he asked presently, in a helpless
sort of manner. “I never wathed dithes, but I might try.”

Dick’s lips twitched, but he managed to keep a straight face.

“Two’s about enough for that, I think,” he returned. “You might see if
you can find some newspapers to start the fire with.”

The dapper fellow looked vaguely about the kitchen, but, there being
nothing of the sort in sight, his eyes returned blankly to Dick’s face.

“I don’t thee any,” he said plaintively.

“Take a candle, then, and look through the other rooms,” Merriwell
retorted rather sharply.

He was beginning to tire a little of the fellow’s absolute
thick-headedness.

Joblots still hesitated. It seemed almost as if he did not wish to leave
the kitchen, but presently he lighted a candle and departed reluctantly.

“Where in the mischief did you get hold of that?” McCormick asked
quickly.

Dick smiled at the other’s tone of contempt.

“Picked him up in the woods about a mile down the path,” he explained.
“He fired a charge of bird shot at us, and when we got hold of him we
found he’d come out for the day’s shooting, missed the last train back,
and hadn’t a notion of where he was going to put up to-night. There’s
plenty of room here, so we thought he might as well stay and go back in
the morning. He doesn’t know one end of a gun from the other, and I
shall feel safer when he’s out of the woods.”

“Humph!” grunted McCormick. “I never ran up against such a chump in all
my life. He’s a blockhead.”

Dick did not answer at once. He was thinking of the expression he had
surprised on the face of the would-be sportsman a little while ago. It
was not in the least like the look of a man lacking in sense. He
wondered whether Mr. Percy Joblots was quite such a fool as appeared at
first sight.

“He does seem pretty inane, doesn’t he?” Merriwell remarked presently.
“Funny thing, though, Mac. He was saying that he knew a lot of Yale men,
and, when Fitz asked him if they were still at New Haven, he asked about
you!”

“About me?” Archie exclaimed incredulously. “Why I never saw the jackass
before in my life!”

“I don’t know that he said he knew you,” Dick returned, “but he gave
that impression. Anyway, he knew your name.”

McCormick’s face took on a puzzled look.

“That’s queer,” he mused. “Wonder where the deuce he got hold of it.”

Dick did not answer. His quick ear had caught the sound of a soft
footfall in the adjoining room, and the next moment Joblots appeared in
the doorway.

“I found thome,” he said, holding up a bunch of newspapers. “Big pile of
them in the fwont woom. What thall I do with them?”

“Just crumple them up and put them in the fireplace,” Merriwell
answered. “Never mind. Here are some of the fellows now. They’ll fix it
up all right.”

As he spoke the door to the woodshed opened and the three men appeared
carrying four or five big logs and a lot of kindling. They proceeded at
once to lay them in the dining-room fireplace, and by the time the
dishes were washed a roaring fire was blazing up the cavernous chimney.

“That’s all to the good,” Dick remarked, as he and Archie joined the
circle about the hearth. “It certainly is cold outside.”

“It sure is, pard,” Buckhart agreed. “That woodshed was like an ice
house.”

Fitzgerald had dragged a sofa up to one side of the blaze and sprawled
full length on it.

“I tell you, fellows, we’ll want to put in the night right here,” he
remarked. “I hate to think of leaving this lovely warm spot and crawling
in between icy sheets.”

“Humph!” snorted the Texan. “How about that mattress you were making
such a time about a while back?”

The slim chap patted the stuffed couch appreciatively.

“This is as good as any mattress,” he retorted.

“Where do we come in?” demanded McCormick. “I suppose we can sit up all
night on plain chairs.”

Buckhart’s mouth drew down into a firm line.

“Nix on that!” he said emphatically. “No breaking away from the bunch.
When we go to bed, little Fitzy will toddle along, too, if I have to
tuck him in myself.”

Fitzgerald lay back comfortably, his eyes fixed dreamily on the dancing
flames.

“When we capture those bank robbers and divide up the reward,” he mused
presently, “I think I’ll buy just such a place as this with my share.”

Merriwell’s eyes gleamed.

“Counting your chickens a little previously, aren’t you, Fitz?” he
smiled. “There hasn’t been any reward offered yet. How do you know there
will be?”

“Why, of course there will,” the slim chap blurted. “Who ever heard of a
bank robbery and no reward. Absurd!”

“I wonder if that paper got it straight about their being traced to
Middleberry,” Baxter put in. “It would be funny if we should run into
them while we’re out to-morrow.”

“Hard to tell,” Dick returned. “Personally I’m not going to bother my
head about them. We came out to shoot, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But still,” persisted Fitzgerald, “if we——”

He stopped abruptly, and his eyes opened wide. Merriwell also stiffened
with a look of keen attention, and in the stillness which followed there
came the sound of the front door being opened and closed again.

“Barry!” McCormick exclaimed, his eyes brightening.

No one else spoke. They had all turned toward the door of the sitting
room and were watching it with intent interest, for, after a momentary
pause in the hall, the sound of footsteps on the bare floor was
unmistakable, coming nearer and nearer.

The next instant the figure of a man loomed in the doorway and stopped
still, his keen, dark eyes flashing swiftly from one surprised face to
another. He was fairly tall, and rather dark, with coal-black hair and a
crisp, well-clipped, black mustache. His features were good, but his
face wore an expression of domineering harshness which did not improve
it. It was evident that he was a man accustomed to having his own way.
It was equally plain that at the present moment he was restraining his
anger with difficulty.

And he was not Barry Lawrence, nor had any one of the party ever laid
eyes on him before.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XI

                     THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE DOOR.


For a moment the silence was unbroken. Then the stranger stepped inside
the room and set down the suit case he carried.

“Well!” he snapped. “Might I ask what this means?”

He looked at Merriwell, who happened to be seated nearest the door, and
his voice quivered with suppressed rage. Dick returned his glance
calmly.

“You are quite at liberty to ask anything you please,” he replied
coolly; “but if you expect an answer you’ll have to be considerably more
definite.”

The man’s teeth clicked together.

“What do you mean by taking possession of this house?” he ripped out.
“How dare you break into another man’s place and make yourselves at home
here? A lot of tramps and loafers! It’s outrageous!”

It was true that, excepting the resplendant Joblots, the Yale men were
all attired in flannel shirts and rather worn, rough-looking clothes;
but any one in his senses would scarcely mistake them for tramps.

Dick arose slowly to his feet, his face calm but his eyes narrowing
slightly.

“I think that will be about enough,” he said quietly, but with an
ominous undercurrent in his voice. “We’re not tramps, and you know it.
Neither have we broken into this house. You ought to know that, too.
Before you loosen up any more on that tongue of yours, kindly let us
know who you might be and what business you have butting in here.”

The stranger’s black eyes fairly flashed.

“Butting in!” he exploded. “I’ll have you know that I am Andrew
Jellison, son of the man who owned this place!”

Merriwell eyed him with a new interest.

“Ah, indeed,” he remarked pleasantly. “Wouldn’t son-in-law be a little
more accurate?”

Jellison gave a start and darted a quick look at Dick.

“What difference does that make?” he snapped.

“Quite a little, I should think,” Merriwell returned calmly. “But you
haven’t told us what right you have here.”

“Right!” frothed Jellison. “Right! I’m the heir. I own every stick and
stone of the place!”

“Really?” Dick questioned. “I was under the impression that it was the
property of Barry Lawrence, from whom we rented it for a few days.”

Jellison’s pompous self-assertion collapsed with the swiftness of a
pricked balloon. He had evidently tried to bluff the Yale men, having no
idea that they knew the truth, and for a moment he was nonplused.

His eyes shifted about the room and he moistened his dry lips with an
equally dry tongue.

“Impossible!” he muttered at length. “There wasn’t any will. I am the
heir-at-law.”

Dick smiled.

“I think you have been misinformed,” he said significantly. “There was a
will, which left everything to Barry Lawrence, Mr. Hickey’s nephew.”

Jellison dropped into a chair, and, taking out his handkerchief, mopped
his forehead.

“You’ll excuse my somewhat hasty words, I’m sure,” he said presently. “I
didn’t understand what you were doing here, or I shouldn’t have spoken
as I did. This has been a great shock!”

Dick dropped back into his chair without replying. He wondered whether
the shock had been as great as Jellison would have it appear. He had a
shrewd suspicion that the man was acting. It seemed incredible that he
could really be ignorant of the fact that Hickey had cut him off without
a cent and that everything had been left to Lawrence.

What was Jellison doing here, anyway? What object had he in appearing at
nine o’clock at night, alone, at a probably deserted farmhouse? Such
conduct was extraordinary, to say the least.

“You—er—say you have rented the place for a few days?” Jellison inquired
at that moment.

Dick nodded.

“Yes. We have taken it for the remainder of the week.”

“Shooting, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

There was silence for a moment. Jellison appeared to be thinking
intently.

“I came down for a few days’ rest,” he volunteered. “The late flurry in
the Street has pretty well worn me out, and I knew how peaceful and
quiet this place was. I had no idea I should find any one here.”

He hesitated and looked questioningly at Dick.

“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to tolerate me for to-night,” he
went on slowly. “There’s no place nearer than Cobmore’s where I could
stay.”

Merriwell was not at all pleased with the turn things had taken. He and
his friends had come out for a few days’ rest and recreation. They had
looked forward for a long time to this little holiday when they would
get away by themselves and be absolutely free from cares or worries of
any sort, and they had been at considerable pains to arrange things so
they could get off.

And now three people had turned up unexpectedly—two of them utter
strangers. He did not mind McCormick, for he was a good fellow and one
of them; but it was annoying beyond measure to have first Joblots and
then this Jellison thrust themselves in. The whole outing would be
spoiled.

But he failed to see how he could very well get out of it. It would not
be decent to refuse Jellison a bed and make him walk three miles through
the forest to Lysander Cobmore, who would, no doubt, be asleep by the
time the man got there. And, after all, it was only for one night. They
could put up with him for that length of time.

“Why, I guess there’s room enough,” he said slowly. “We haven’t been
upstairs yet, but I should imagine there would be no lack of beds in a
house of this size.”

“Oh, I don’t care about a bed,” Jellison said, with a sort of suppressed
eagerness. “I can turn in on that couch there. Anything like that will
be good enough.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to do that,” Merriwell returned quickly.
“Suppose we take a look upstairs and see what there is. It’s about time
to hit the pillow, anyhow.”

His suggestion was received with much approbation. The other fellows had
grown rather restless since the appearance of Andrew Jellison. Joblots
was such an insignificant fellow—almost a fool, in fact—that they had
not paid much attention to him and had continued their talk and joking
quite as if he were not there; but the presence of Jellison seemed,
somehow, to throw a damper over everything, and, since the evening was
spoiled, they might just as well go to bed.

One and all, they arose with alacrity, and, hunting up candles, lighted
them and started in a procession upstairs.

Their discoveries on the second floor were most satisfactory. There were
bedrooms enough to give each one of the party a separate one if he
wished it, and Fitzgerald observed, on punching the mattresses, that
they were all of a good quality of hair.

Here, even more than downstairs, the effect of the hit-or-miss enlarging
of the house was apparent. There was very little hallway, most of the
rooms opening one out of another; but, with a crowd of this sort, that
was no inconvenience.

It being decidedly cold; the fellows at once hunted up sheets and
blankets and proceeded with the greatest expedition to make up the beds
required.

Andrew Jellison persisted in his desire to spend the night on the sofa
downstairs.

“There’s no use in my bothering to make a bed just for one night,” he
said. “That sofa is comfortable enough, and I shall sleep very well on
it.”

He seemed to make such a point of it that Dick began to wonder whether
he could possibly have any ulterior motive in wanting to be away from
the rest of the bunch, and he resolved to thwart the man just on the
chance of such a thing being the case.

“Nonsense!” he said positively. “There’s no trouble making a bed. It
would be perfectly absurd for you to spend the night on a sofa. Just you
take this room off ours. It’s got a nice little single bed, and you’ll
sleep like a top.”

He was so emphatical that Jellison finally gave way, though it was with
a very palpable reluctance, and proceeded to make up the bed in the
little room which opened out of the larger bedroom at the head of the
stairs, which Merriwell had taken possession of for Buckhart and
himself.

Fitzgerald and Baxter slept in one just back of that, and McCormick
chose one across the hall for himself and Percy Joblots. When the idea
was mentioned to the dapper little fellow, however, he objected
strenuously.

“Weally, now, I couldn’t think of thleeping with another perthon,” he
said plaintively. “I wouldn’t clothe an eye all night. There’th a nice
little room jutht back of thith one. I’ll make the bed all by mythelf.”

He made such a point of it that Dick gave in readily and laughingly told
him to take whatever room he chose. It at once became evident, however,
that Percy had not the most remote conception of how to make the bed,
and McCormick finally took pity on him and did the job up in short
order.

At last, when matters were settled satisfactorily, they pulled off their
clothes and crawled between the cold sheets with many shivers and gasps,
which quickly ceased; and presently, one by one, they dropped off to
sleep.

Several hours later Dick Merriwell awoke with a start and lay still
listening. Just what had roused him he did not know, but he felt that it
must have been some unusual noise, or he would never have been wakened
out of a sound sleep.

The house was silent as a tomb, except for the regular breathing which
came from the Texan beside him and from the room where Jellison lay. His
first waking thought had been that the latter was prowling about the
house for some purpose, but the heavy breathing from the room showed
that the stranger was either sound asleep or giving a very good
imitation of it. At least he was there.

What could it have been? For a long time Dick strained his ears for a
repetition of the noise, but nothing came. At last he decided that he
must have imagined or dreamed it, and, relaxing himself, he closed his
eyes and was just dropping off again when he opened them with a jerk and
sat bolt upright in bed.

His quick ear had caught the faint but unmistakable sound of grating, as
if two stones were being rubbed against each other, which came from
somewhere downstairs.

The next moment Dick crept cautiously out of bed and slipped noiselessly
into the hall. Bending over the railing, his eyes lighted up with
triumph as he caught the faint gleam of light from the open door of the
sitting room.

It was bitter cold, and he was clad in the thinnest of pajamas, but he
did not notice this as he crept cautiously downstairs and approached the
door. He was too interested in what was going on in that room to think
of anything else.

Softly he crossed the lower hall and peered through the crack of the
partly opened door. Then he saw that the light was in the dining room,
and even as he advanced he heard a labored breathing as if some one was
either making a great physical effort, or else was struggling under a
tremendous mental strain.

With every nerve tingling and his curiosity at its highest pitch, Dick
reached the door of the dining room and looked through the crack.

What he saw fairly paralyzed him with amazement. It was only with the
greatest difficulty that he caught himself in time to prevent a gasp of
surprise.

The great fire had died down and only a few embers glowed dully in the
mammoth opening. The light he had seen came from a candle which was set
down on the stone hearth, and close beside it knelt the figure of a man
clad only in pajamas. His head was bent so that Merriwell could not see
his face, but Dick was not thinking of him at the moment. His eyes were
riveted on the gaping hole in the hearth over which the fellow was
bending. It had been made by the removal of one of the stone slabs about
eighteen inches square, and from where he stood Dick could see the
interior quite distinctly.

It was filled almost to the brim with packages of bank notes, packed so
tightly together that one could not have inserted a finger between them.

Merriwell could scarcely believe his senses. He rubbed his eyes in
bewilderment and looked again. It was quite true. They were bank
notes—mostly yellow-backs—and from the way they were packed together
they must represent a tremendous sum.

Where had they come from? What were they doing there? The thought of the
bank robbery at Hartford flashed into his mind, and at the same instant
the kneeling man raised his head and revealed to Merriwell’s amazed gaze
the face of Archie McCormick, ghastly white, sweat dewed, the eyes wide
and shining, and the pale lips trembling spasmodically.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XII

                          IN THE SILENT NIGHT.


Dick could not take his eyes off the face of his friend, drawn, pale,
stamped with the print of some vital emotion. What did it mean? What
could it mean? Why had Archie stolen down here in the dead of night?
Where had the money come from?

These, and a dozen other questions, equally unanswerable, flashed
through his half-dazed mind in the brief interval before the fellow
kneeling on the hearth could move a finger. McCormick was gazing
straight at the door, and Dick half expected him to call his name. It
did not seem possible that the man could be so blind as not to see who
was watching him through the crack.

Then he saw that Archie was absolutely oblivious to his surroundings.
His eyes were cloudy and unseeing. He was not walking in his sleep, but
his mind was so concentrated on some problem that he was blind to all
outward things.

Presently he uttered a shuddering sigh and reached slowly for the stone
slab which lay close at hand.

Dick waited until he had replaced it over the hole and was leaning
forward for a handful of ashes to dust into the cracks, and then softly
made his way back to the hall and upstairs.

His first impulse had been to confront Archie then and there and get the
truth from him, but now he shrank from doing that until he had had time
to think. He knew that appearances were often deceptive and that there
might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the position in which he
had found McCormick; but the latter had an extremely sensitive,
high-spirited nature, and Dick felt that he would be likely to resent
any inquiries he himself might make which could not help but show more
or less suspicion.

For Merriwell was suspicious. Fight as he might against the thought, he
could not help connecting what he had just seen with the robbery of the
Hartford bank just twenty-four hours before.

He did not wish to believe anything against Archie McCormick. He had
always known him as a perfectly straightforward, truthful fellow with a
very keen sense of honor. It was incredible that he could be connected
in any way with the robbery, and yet facts were facts and Merriwell
could not help putting two and two together.

Archie had gone to Hartford two days before, ostensibly to see a friend
who lived there. That was all right, but, unfortunately, he had reached
there the very afternoon of the night in which the bank had been broken
open. He had suddenly shown up in this deserted spot, and the man at
whose invitation he was supposed to have come, had not yet appeared.

Dick remembered Cobmore’s very evident doubt of the story that Barry
Lawrence would think of visiting the farmhouse without giving him
notice.

The robbers had been tracked to Middleberry and their trail lost.
Middleberry was barely twelve miles away, and it would be a very simple
matter for any one to make their way unseen through the woods to the
house on the shores of Cranberry Lake.

Last, but not least, was the presence of this hoard of bank notes
concealed under the stone hearth downstairs. Dick felt sure that they
had not belonged to the late occupant of the place. Whatever other
eccentricities he might have had, Hickey was not a miser, but a very
shrewd old man with a decided belief in the safety of banks. He was not
the sort who would keep his savings in the house, and, besides,
Merriwell had noticed that the packages of notes had been all neatly
tied up just as they had come from the bank. And if they were not the
spoil from the late robbery, what were they?

Lying there in the dark, Dick heard McCormick come stealthily back
upstairs and slip into his room. And, after that, hour after hour passed
as he thought over the problem from every conceivable point of view.

He did not wish to believe his friend guilty. Some how, he could not
quite bring himself to that point, and yet every scrap of evidence was
strongly against him.

He began to remember little things which he had scarcely noticed at the
time, but which now, in the light of this new discovery, came vividly
back into his mind.

Archie had not taken Fitzgerald’s joshing about the robbery with
anything like his usual good grace. He had been palpably annoyed, and
his assumption of careless laughter had seemed a little forced.

Then there was Joblots. Where did he come in? It did not seem possible
that any human being could be such an absolute ass, though once or twice
in his life Dick had met fellows with mannerisms of which the dapper
little fellow had made a very good copy. But Merriwell had an
instinctive feeling that he was nothing but a copy. For some reason he
was playing a part, and Merriwell felt sure that the real man was
something far different from his outward appearance. He had been
interested in McCormick from the very first. All evening he had been
watching him—covertly, to be sure, but none the less constantly. Was it
possible that he could be following Archie?

Jellison, too, was a puzzle. The absurdity of a man’s coming alone to
such a deserted spot as this and landing there late at night, simply
because he wanted to take a few days’ rest, was palpable. There must be
some ulterior motive, and a very strong one at that, to cause him to do
what he had done; but, try as he would, Dick could not fathom it.
Presently his mind left Jellison and leaped back to McCormick.

Archie’s only brother had been sentenced to two years in State’s prison.
He had been at liberty for six months. To be sure, both Archie and his
brother swore that the latter had been wrongly convicted, that some one
high up in the bank had in reality stolen the money and then succeeded
in weaving such a web of false evidence around the innocent man that he
had been convicted and sentenced, the thief himself escaping scot-free.

That was possible. It was also possible that both men had lied. They
might have inherited a single bad streak—an irresistible tendency to
steal, perhaps. Such things had been known. Jim might have committed the
actual robbery and Archie helped him get away with the spoils.

So Merriwell tossed about through the long hours of the night,
struggling between his innate loyalty and devotion to his friend and the
evidence of his eyesight and his common sense. At last, toward morning,
he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed strange, fantastic dreams in
which Archie and Jellison and Percy Joblots were mixed up in a vague,
shadowy, perfectly idiotic manner with a fountain of silver dollars
which spouted out of the stone hearth of the dining room and filled the
whole house.

He awoke when the first beams of the morning sun streamed through the
open window and slanted across the bed. He was on the floor in a
twinkling, dragging the blankets off Brad and causing the Texan to awake
with a grunt and a shiver.

“Come out and take a plunge,” Dick invited him. “It’ll clear the cobwebs
out of your brains.”

To tell the truth, he felt more need of that process than did his chum;
for his cogitating of the night before had brought no satisfactory
solution to the problem which was perplexing him, and he was in quite as
much of a quandary as ever regarding the stand he sought to take.

“B-r-r!” chattered Buckhart. “I reckon I might as well, pard. I couldn’t
be much colder than I am now. Come on.”

Slipping off his pajamas, he snatched up a blanket, and, wrapping it
around him, started downstairs.

Dick lingered long enough to arouse the others, and then followed.
Together they raced across the grass, silvery with hoar frost, and,
without a pause, dashed into the icy water.

Both of them let out a yell which raised weird echoes from across the
silent lake, and then settled down to a brisk swim. Presently the other
three fellows appeared and took the plunge with even more
vociferousness, and five minutes later they all trooped back to the
house, glowing from head to foot and feeling ready for anything which
the day had to offer.

Joblots, dragging on his clothes with shivering haste, chattering teeth
and fumbling fingers, was horror-stricken when he found out what they
had been doing.

“My grathiouth thaketh!” he gasped. “How could you do it? I thould have
perithed of the cold. My conthtitution would never thtand the thtrain.”

Brad slapped him on the back with a powerful hand which caused Percy to
wince and step back.

“Do you good, kiddo!” he grinned. “We’re warm as toast now, and you’re
blue with the cold. Better try it.”

“No, thankth,” Joblots returned hastily. “I’ll be all wight ath thoon
ath I get my clotheth on.”

When the Yale men got downstairs they found him trying to crawl into the
chimney, while Jellison had departed to the woodshed for material with
which to build up the fire.

Dick had decided to take no steps in any direction regarding his
discovery of the night before. A little delay would do no harm and might
be productive of infinite good. The money was safe enough for the
present, now that he knew it was there, and while he hustled around
getting breakfast ready he kept a keen watch on McCormick.

There was no mistaking the fact that Archie had something on his mind.
Always light-hearted and prompt to join in with any joshing or bantering
give-and-take which might be going on, he seemed decidedly serious as he
helped Dick with the breakfast. More than once Merriwell caught him
gazing absently out of the window, and once when he spoke to him
suddenly the fellow gave a sudden start and the dish he was holding
slipped from his hands and crashed in pieces on the floor.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he said regretfully as he
stooped to pick up the pieces. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“What was the trouble?” Dick asked carelessly. “Didn’t you feel well?”

“Oh, yes, I felt all right. Strange bed, I suppose.”

“You didn’t happen to get up, did you?” Merriwell inquired, as he broke
an egg into the frying pan.

McCormick gave a slight start and darted a keen look at Dick, but the
latter’s countenance was as free from guile as that of a child-in-arms.

“Did you hear any one?” Archie countered evasively.

“I awoke some time during the night and thought I heard some one walking
around downstairs,” Dick explained easily.

“I did get up and go down,” McCormick said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“I was restless and finally got up and took a walk through the rooms
down there. It was plagued cold, too, I can tell you.”

Merriwell did not ask any more questions. He had given Archie plenty of
opportunity to explain what had taken him down to the dining room if the
fellow were so inclined, but apparently he did not propose to do any
explaining.

Despite McCormick’s absent state of mind and Merriwell’s preoccupation,
breakfast proved to be a jovial meal. Fitzgerald was quite lively enough
to keep things going, and Buckhart and Baxter were good seconds. Even
Percy Joblots, now that he was warm again, piped up now and then with
some foolish remark which sent them all into roars of laughter, while
Jellison seemed to have recovered from his grouch of the night before
and was absolutely genial.

Neither of the two strangers, however, made any mention of leaving the
farmhouse that morning. They could not decently stay there much longer,
and Dick rather expected them to announce their departure directly
breakfast was over. But they did not.

Instead, Jellison took a comfortable seat in front of the fire in the
dining room, and, opening a newspaper, which he had brought with him the
night before, became instantly absorbed in its contents. Joblots hung
around the kitchen while the dishes were being washed, fluttering
helplessly about, but really accomplishing nothing.

McCormick evidently had something he wanted to say to Dick, but seemed
to find rather difficult. Several times he started a remark, only to
break off abruptly; but at last, when he was drying the last plate, he
made the break.

“I don’t believe I’ll go out with you fellows this morning,” he said, in
a low tone. “I’ve got to go to Middleberry for something special. I’ll
be back by noon, though, and perhaps I may run across Barry somewhere. I
can’t imagine what’s become of him.”

Dick did not reply at once. He wondered what this unexpected move could
mean. What sudden business could take Archie to Middleberry? However, he
could think of no plausible objection, and so long as the money remained
safely under the hearth McCormick was not likely to stay away
permanently.

“Just as you please, Mac,” he said quietly. “You’ll miss some good
sport, though. The first day may be the best. I don’t want you to feel
that you’re in the way, or that we don’t want you, simply because you
didn’t start out with our party.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t that,” Archie returned promptly. “It’s just something
which I have got to attend to this morning. I’m sure I’ll be able to get
back by lunch time.”

“Well, if you don’t find us here, you’ll have to trace us by the guns,”
Dick remarked, drying his hands. “We’ll take some sandwiches with us and
probably won’t come back until night.”

A sudden, worried look flashed into McCormick’s face. He glanced swiftly
through the open door at Jellison, who sat reading before the fire. Then
his eyes returned to Dick’s face.

“Dick,” he whispered softly, “take him along with you, won’t you?”

He made a quick, almost imperceptible motion of his head toward the
other room.

Merriwell’s eyes narrowed.

“Jellison?” he asked in the same low tone.

Archie nodded.

“Yes. Don’t let him stay in the house alone. Give him my gun, if you
want to. I can’t tell you just now why I ask this, but it’s very
important to me.”

“But he’ll be leaving this morning,” Dick objected.

“No, he won’t,” McCormick returned positively. “You mark my words, he’ll
ask if he can’t stay through the day. Tell him yes, and ask him to go
out with you. Will you do this much for me, Dick?”

Merriwell looked keenly at the face of the man before him, and Archie
returned his gaze steadfastly. His eyes were anxious and pleading, but
Dick could see no signs of guilt in them. Either the fellow was
innocent, or he had amazing powers of dissimulation.

“Why can’t you confide in me, Mac?” Merriwell asked quickly.

Archie looked distressed.

“I’d like to, but I can’t—now,” he said, in a low tone. “Won’t you take
me on faith?”

Dick shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll have to, I reckon, Mac,” he returned. “All right. I’ll do my best
to help you out.”

He walked into the other room where the Yale men were busily engaged in
putting together their guns, filling cartridge belts with shells, and
making general preparations for the day’s sport. Joblots stood watching
them, a look of awed admiration on his face.

“My grathiouth!” he exclaimed. “I with I could do that ath quick ath you
do. It taketh me about an hour to fixth my gun wight.”

Fitzgerald grinned.

“I guess you haven’t had much practice with a gun, have you?” he
inquired slyly.

“Not much,” Joblots returned sadly. “I with I wath going with you thith
morning. I’d learn a lot.”

“Mac’s got to go in to the village,” Dick announced. “Anybody want him
to get anything?”

There was a general negative, and Dick turned to Joblots.

“Perhaps you’d like to stay with us this morning and shoot?” he
suggested pleasantly.

His tone was quite casual, but he had a distinct object in giving the
invitation.

The dapper little fellow seemed suddenly to experience a change of
heart.

“Thank you very much,” he returned hastily, “but I think I’d better not
thtay. I’d better be getting back, and it will be pleathanter having
thome one to go with.”

“Just as you please,” Dick said carelessly.

But he turned away with a feeling of distinct satisfaction. He had found
out what he wanted to know. Joblots was evidently determined not to let
McCormick out of his sight. And now arose the question: Why was he
following Archie? Dick’s thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by Andrew
Jellison.

“Perhaps, since Mr. Joblots doesn’t wish to shoot,” he said, in the
pleasantest tone of voice, “you wouldn’t mind if I took his place for
the morning. I am very fond of shooting, and I don’t suppose you will
object to my staying here until this afternoon when I can start back in
time to get the last train to the city?”

So Archie was right. Jellison did want to stay, after all.

“No objection whatever,” Merriwell returned. “You can take McCormick’s
gun, for he won’t use it till afternoon.”

“Thanks very much,” Jellison said. “You are most kind. Now my little
holiday will not be spoiled after all.”

Without further delay, Archie departed, striding across the field toward
the woods with Joblots trotting after him, taking short, quick, mincing
steps which set Fitzgerald off into a paroxysm of laughter. He at once
pranced across the room in a very lifelike imitation of the dapper
little fellow, but the exhibition came to an untimely end when he
stumbled over one of the spreading claw feet of the mahagony table and
nearly fell.

“Drat the thing!” he exclaimed crossly. “What in thunder does any one
want to have table legs all over the room for?”

“Peace, brother!” droned a sanctimonious voice from the doorway.
“Blessed is he who speaks from a pure heart, but the curser and reviler
is an abomination.”

Fitz gave a gasp and whirled round, while the other fellows looked up in
astonishment.

Standing on the threshold was a most extraordinary figure of a man. He
was very tall and very thin, his lank garments of rusty black clinging
to his skinny frame in a manner that gave him a ludicrous resemblance to
a scarecrow. His face was long and pointed like a razor edge. His hooked
nose curved over his thin-lipped mouth like the beak of a bird, and was
of a distinctly fiery hue, especially toward the end. His long hair
straggled down from under the broken brim of an ancient silk hat which
had weathered the storms of many winters. His eyes were rolled piously
upward so that little but the whites could be seen, while both hands
were clasped over the handle of a grayish-green umbrella of
extraordinary size.

The Yale men gazed at him for a moment in petrified silence.

“Well, who are you?” Fitzgerald inquired presently, in a choking voice.

The strange man slowly withdrew his eyes from the ceiling and looked at
the little fellow disapprovingly.

“A rebuker of iniquity,” he returned ponderously, “moved by a direct
intervention of providence to bring you to a full perception of the
error of your ways.”

“Humph!” snorted Fitz. “I like your cheek. What’s the matter with my
ways, I’d like to know? They suit me all right.”

“Confirmed in sin,” murmured the stranger. “Wallowing in profanity. A
sad case—very sad.”

Buckhart chuckled gleefully.

“Ah-ha, Fitzy!” he grinned. “I knew you’d sure be pinched some day with
your thundering cussing.”

A look of pain came into the face of the tall man and he lifted one thin
hand reprovingly.

“Hush, I beg of you,” he said severely. “First search out your own heart
and find whether it be clean before you venture to reprove a brother.”

Fitzgerald chortled joyfully.

“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “Go for him, old duck. Pick out your own
beams, you Texas steer, before you go hunting for my moats.”

Though the man’s appearance and manner were amusing enough, Dick wanted
to get started with the guns, and he felt that time was being wasted.

“Might I ask who you are?” he inquired, struggling to repress a smile,
“and what your business here is?”

The stranger glanced at him critically.

“You may, sir,” he returned at length. “I am pleased to observe that you
do not appear to be steeped in sin. At least, your language is not
sprinkled with the oaths which have cut my sensitive nature to the
quick. I am the Reverend Jeremy Pennyfeather, a preacher and expounder
of the Word. On my morning ramble through the clean, sweet, dewy world,
I chanced to pass this house, and finding the door ajar, I entered,
seeking a moment’s rest, and, perhaps—er—a little—er—sustenance, without
which these poor carnal bodies of ours cannot uphold the burdens of
life.”

Dick gazed at him in astonishment. He certainly did not speak as if he
were quite right in the head.

“Your morning ramble?” he repeated. “You live somewhere near here?”

The Reverend Pennyfeather hesitated.

“At the moment I am without a—er—fixed charge,” he explained. “I travel
about carrying the Word and doing what little good I can by the way. It
sometimes happens, as in the present instance, that I am temporarily
without a roof over my head or—only for the moment, I assure you—the
necessary fuel to keep this poor machine of mine—er—going.”

Dick’s face cleared. The fellow was some wandering preacher, possibly
crack-brained, and apparently little better than a tramp. He had simply
come in there for breakfast.

“Oh, I see,” he said quickly. “You want something to eat. Just come out
to the kitchen, will you?”

The man followed him slowly, with majestic steps, but there was no
mistaking the hungry glitter in his eyes or the suppressed eagerness
with which he fell to on the simple fare which Dick laid before him. He
certainly ate as if he were half starved, and Merriwell was far from
regretting the time wasted in waiting until he had finished.

When there was nothing more left in sight, Pennyfeather arose with a
sigh.

“Young man, I thank you,” he said sonorously. “Has it ever occurred to
you what a degrading thing it is that these frail bodies of ours cannot
long exist without carnal food?”

Dick smiled.

“I can’t say it has,” he returned promptly. “I have a decided partiality
to good things to eat, especially when I come in after a day’s tramp
through the woods, with an appetite like a horse.”

“But what a shame it is that our soaring, ethereal spirits should be
tied to earth by such carnal bonds,” persisted the preacher. “Were it
not for the baleful necessity of food and drink what might not man
accomplish!”

He rolled his eyes in ecstasy and then slowly lowered them to
Merriwell’s face.

“A painful affliction which I have carried uncomplainingly from the
cradle of childhood, compels occasional recourse to—er—stimulant,” he
said blandly. “Periods of faintness, you know, from which nothing else
seems to revive me. If, by any chance, you have something of the sort at
hand——”

The pause was expressive. Dick glanced swiftly at the thin man’s hushed
nose. It would seem that the periods of faintness had been more or less
frequent.

“Sorry,” he said shortly, “but I haven’t.”

The Reverend Pennyfeather sighed and clasped his hands together
resignedly.

“Ah, well, perhaps ’tis better so,” he murmured. “No doubt I shall get
along without it. So far none of the attacks have been fatal. Perhaps
you have no objection to my resting for a while before I resume my way.”

Dick had a very decided objection. Enough time had been wasted already
with this humbug.

“You can take a chair out on the porch and sit there as long as you
please,” he said shortly. “We are just leaving the house for the
morning, however, and I want to lock up.”

“That will do very nicely,” returned Pennyfeather quickly. “I hope,
however, you will allow me a scant five minutes in which to bring to a
realizing sense of the evil of their ways, the two very profane young
men whom I first talked with.”

He moved swiftly through the dining room as he spoke, with Merriwell at
his heels, but when they reached the sitting room, it was found to be
quite deserted. Evidently the fellows, scenting a probable continuance
of the stranger’s moral lecture, had decamped.

“The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” breathed Pennyfeather. “What is
so tormenting as a guilty conscience, my dear sir? I should have liked
one more chance to plead with them, but life is full of disappointments,
which are always discipline for the soul, sir—discipline for the soul.
This chair will do nicely.”

His sudden change of subject was due to a glimpse of Dick’s impatient
face as he stood significantly by the door, gun in one hand, ready to be
gone.

With a swift judgment which had little of the spiritual in it, the
preacher picked instantly the most comfortable chair in the room, and
proceeded to roll it out to the veranda with considerable expedition.
Dick closed and locked the door behind him, thrusting the key into his
pocket.

“Rest yourself as long as you please,” he said briefly, leaping to the
ground. “Nobody will disturb you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he started across the open at a brisk pace
to join the fellows who were waiting for him at the edge of the woods.

“Blessed is he who sits on a tack, for he shall rise again,” intoned
Fitzgerald, rolling his eyes heavenward and drawing down the corners of
his mouth.

“Did he start in to give you a jawing, too, pard?” Buckhart inquired,
with a grin. “Hope you didn’t say ‘dash it’ in his highness’ presence.”

“What’s he doing in that chair on the porch?” Teddy Baxter asked
curiously.

“Resting,” Dick explained. “He’s subject to spells of faintness which
need—er—stimulant. Painful affliction from childhood, you know. Nothing
else helps. When he found there was nothing doing in that line, he asked
for a chair upon which to rest his weary limbs and recover from said
spell, so I let him take it. He can’t get away with that. It weighs
about a ton.”

“Dotty, isn’t he?” Fitz asked, as he leaped down from the fence rail.

“I guess so,” Dick returned. “Either that, or just plain faker. Come on,
let’s get busy. We’ve wasted enough time.”

Leaping the fence, they at once plunged into the woods and started in a
northerly direction toward the wilder, rocky country beyond, where
Farmer Cobmore had told them the partridges were remarkably thick this
fall. Already they were planning to get up with the dawn next morning
and try for wild ducks at their feeding ground at the upper end of
Cranberry Lake.

Andrew Jellison, carrying McCormick’s gun, seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying himself. He was pleasant and genial, entering into the
conversation now and then in a perfectly natural way, while not
thrusting himself forward too much, and was, in short, so totally
different in every way from what he had been—ill-tempered and
overbearing of manner—the night before, that he scarcely seemed the same
man.

It was almost as if a great load had been removed from his mind and the
reaction made him as light-hearted and free from care as a boy.
Merriwell wondered at the change. Perhaps he had misjudged the man when
he credited him with an ulterior motive in intruding upon them. Possibly
the man’s nerves really had been worn to a shred and he had wanted
nothing more than a little while in the peaceful quiet of the wilderness
to brace him up.

There was no question of his ability to handle a gun, nor of his
interest and enthusiasm in the pursuit of game. To him belonged the
credit of the first bird bagged, and throughout the morning he kept up
to the good record he made at the beginning.

For a time they all kept pretty well together. Then, little by little,
they split up, each man taking the route which he thought most
favorable, having planned to meet at a certain point about twelve
o’clock for lunch.

About eleven Dick started up a covey of birds and became so interested
in their pursuit that he forgot all about the time and was consequently
late reaching the point of meeting.

When he came out of the bushes to the broad, rocky spur of the low
mountain, he found the others seated near at hand busily engaged in
devouring sandwiches.

“Better hustle, Richard, if you want anything,” Fitzgerald admonished,
rather indistinctly. “We were so hungry we couldn’t wait another
minute.”

Merriwell came forward and dropped down on the rock.

“How many?” Buckhart asked.

“Nine,” returned his chum.

“Great! That beats the record so far.”

“Where’s Jellison?” Dick asked suddenly.

He had been conscious of something or some one missing ever since he
came out of the thicket.

Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders.

“Search me,” he returned airily. “Haven’t seen him since we split up.”

There was a little furrow of anxiety on Dick’s brow. He was thinking of
McCormick’s very evident worry lest Jellison be left alone in the house.
The fellow had come with them that morning quite of his own accord, but
that did not prevent his hurrying back there as soon as he could do so
without attracting attention. What had Mac to fear from him, anyway? Was
it possible that the man knew what lay under the hearth?

As Dick puzzled over the problem, all his doubts and fears and
perplexities returned in full force, and did not add in the least to his
pleasure in their little outing.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIII

                         NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON.


As Archie McCormick struck out along the forest path which led to
Lysander Cobmore’s farm he was not especially pleased to have Percy
Joblots tagging along behind. He would much rather have been alone.
There was so much to think of and plan out that he would have liked to
be able to give his whole mind to it instead of having to think of this
little whipper-snapper who, from the first, seemed to have considerable
difficulty in keeping up with the Yale man’s long stride.

“You mutht be in an awful hurry,” he panted, after they had gone about
half a mile.

“I am,” snapped McCormick, without looking back.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the labored
breathing of Percy.

“Grathiouth thaketh!” he gasped presently. “I’m motht dead. Couldn’t you
walk a little thlower for jutlit a few minuteth?”

Growling an irritated response, Archie slowed down a little, but very
soon was back at the old speed. He really did not intend to hustle so,
but his mind was so wholly given over to the problem which he had to
solve that, unconsciously, he almost flew over the rough path.

“Merthy!” moaned Joblots, mopping his face with a delicate linen
handkerchief. “Thith ith awful!”

McCormick did not hear him, so preoccupied was he, and the dapper little
fellow struggled on for a quarter of a mile farther in panting silence.

“Can’t we retht for jutht a minute?” he begged, at the end of that time.

Archie whirled around swiftly.

“Why the dickens do you want to rest?” he demanded fiercely. “I didn’t
ask you to come with me! I’ve got to get to Middleberry as quick as I
possibly can, and here you drag along and talk about wanting to rest.
Gee! It’s enough to try the patience of a saint.”

Joblots shrank back and instinctively put up a defensive arm. Apparently
he was afraid Mac was going to hit him, and the look of fear on his
puny, insignificant face brought the big Yale man swiftly to his senses.

“Don’t be a fool!” he growled, in an apologetic tone. “You don’t think
I’d hit you, I hope? I suppose I was a bit sharp, but you mustn’t mind
what I said. I’m worried clean out of my head, almost, about something.
We’ll rest a little and then take it slower.”

Joblots instantly plucked up heart at this and became all smiles. They
stopped for a few minutes and then went on again at moderate speed, and
all the way through the woods he drove McCormick almost wild with his
well-meant, but perfectly idiotic, chatter.

At last, to McCormick’s infinite relief, the farmhouse was in sight.

Cobmore was at home, and, after a little persuasion, was induced to let
Archie borrow a horse and buggy to take him in to town.

He seemed to be a little curious as to the reason for the trip, but the
Yale man was not communicative, so the farmer was obliged to content
himself with sly twitting of Joblots, who appeared to be absolutely
oblivious to his banter.

It was a little after eight when they left Cobmore’s. At half-past nine
McCormick drove recklessly through the long village street, and, pulling
up with a jerk in front of the small station building, leaped out and
ran inside, leaving Joblots staring in dismay at the reins which had
been tossed into his lap, as if he hadn’t the least idea what he was to
do with them.

Presently he laid them cautiously on the seat and slipped quietly out of
the buggy. Luckily one of the natives lounging by the door, took it upon
himself to tie the horse to a hitching post, or there is no telling how
McCormick would have managed to return the rig intact.

Percy Joblots, safe from the perilous position alone in the buggy, drew
a quick breath and hastily followed Archie into the building. He found
him at the window in the act of handing a telegraph message to the
station agent, but the latter had read it aloud to verify it so quickly
that it was all over before the dapper little fellow could sidle quietly
within hearing distance.

“Will you please send it off at once?” McCormick asked, handing the man
a dollar bill. “Just keep the change for your trouble.”

The fellow’s eyes brightened instantly, and he lost much of his languid,
indifferent manner.

“Yes, sir,” he returned promptly. “If I can get an open wire, I’ll push
it right along.”

He dropped down in his chair and the sharp click-click of the instrument
sounded through the office.

“It’s all right,” the man said, as he looked up. “She’s gone.”

“How long will it take for an answer to come back?” McCormick asked
eagerly.

“All depends. Couple of hours, anyhow.”

The Yale man frowned. Two hours seemed a long time to wait, but there
was no help for it. As he turned away from the window, his eyes fell
upon the dapper Joblots standing quietly beside him.

“Humph!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here? Where’d you
leave the horse?”

Percy gasped.

“Thaketh alive! Outthide, of courthe. You thouldn’t have left me alone
with him. I never could thand hortheth.”

“Idiot!” growled McCormick, rushing to the door.

He gave an exclamation of relief as he saw the animal safely tied, and
then turned back to Joblots.

“You’ve got about an hour to wait for your train,” he said shortly. “I’m
going for a walk, so I’ll say good-by to you now.”

The little fellow seemed reluctant to part company with the Yale man,
but Archie had reached the point when very little more of the other’s
company would drive him distracted, so he made short work of the parting
and hurried out of the station to the street and thence for a tramp
along the country road.

His astonishment can better be imagined than described when, returning a
couple of hours later, the first thing which greeted his eyes as he
pushed open the station door was the familiar form of the little pest he
fancied he was rid of for good, sitting complacently on one of the
benches.

Joblots smiled quite happily into the frowning countenance of the Yale
man.

“Tho glad you’re back,” he lisped. “Motht annoying thing! I actually
mithed the beathtly train. I went acroth the stweet to thee if I
couldn’t find thome thigaretth, and while I wath talking to the
man—motht amuthing perthon, he wath—the bally thing came in and I never
thaw it.”

“I never heard of such a fool trick!” snapped McCormick. “Now you’ve got
to wait till after one.”

“Yeth,” Percy sighed, “and not a thingle plathe to get a bite to eat.”

“Well, that’s your fault,” Archie said callously. “You’ll have to go
without.”

Walking over to the window, he found that the answer to his message had
not yet arrived. Consequently he had to put in another half hour in
listening to Percy’s idiotic prattle before the agent called to him that
the telegram had come.

McCormick sprang up eagerly and snatched the yellow sheet from the man’s
hand. His eyes eagerly scanned the contents of the rather long
communication and, when he had read it all, they lighted up joyfully.

“I was right,” he muttered under his breath. “I knew it must be so. Now
if I can only work it right. Gee! I can hardly wait to get back to the
house.”

He hurried to the door, calling a brief good-by to Percy as he passed
that amazed person, leaped into the buggy outside, and a moment later
the clatter of the flying horse’s hoofs died away down the village
street.

He made good time back to Cobmore’s, drove the horse into the stable and
left him to the care of the hired man. Then he darted into the woods,
found the path and fairly flew along it.

His face was flushed and his eyes shining with eagerness as he hurried
along. Everything was coming his way now, if he only used a few
precautions.

As he came out of the woods within sight of the farmhouse, he stopped
abruptly and looked sharply at the building.

“Who in thunder’s that?” he muttered.

Close against the side of the house, beside one of the windows, was a
man, tall, thin, and dressed in frayed, black garments. His back was
toward McCormick, and he seemed to be intent on something which he was
watching through a crack in the closed blind.

As Archie watched him, not knowing quite what to do, the fellow suddenly
turned and saw him. The next instant his flying coat tails were
vanishing around the corner of the house.

“Must be a tramp,” the Yale man murmured uneasily.

He did not like the thought of any one spying around that house,
particularly around that room. There was entirely too much at stake.

Crossing the field, he reached the front of the house. The door was
closed and apparently locked. The big armchair on the veranda puzzled
him for a moment, but he swiftly forgot that and everything else as his
eyes fell on the partly open window near at hand.

He drew his breath sharply and his face paled.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed. “Somebody’s broken in!”

The next moment he was on the veranda and had slipped through the
window. A sound came from the dining room on the other side of the hall
which made him stiffen like a hound on the scent.

Three strides took him past the stairs and into the sitting room. A
second later he stood in the doorway of the dining room. He was just in
time.

The slab had been removed from the hearth, and before the opening knelt
Andrew Jellison. Near him was a large suit case, and he was busily
engaged in lifting the packages of bank notes from the hole and stowing
them away in the case. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that he
did not hear the soft approach of the Yale man, nor see him pause in the
doorway.

“Caught with the goods, Jellison!” McCormick said, in a tone of triumph.

“You pretty near turned the trick, but not quite.”

Andrew Jellison jerked up his head swiftly and drew his breath with a
quick, sharp intake. His face turned the color of chalk, the package of
bank notes dropped from his limp hand into the hole, and for an instant
he gazed at the Yale man with a kind of horror-stricken fascination.

Then he leaped to his feet.

“Pretty clever, but not quite clever enough,” McCormick went on. “You
didn’t know I heard you steal downstairs last night and followed you.
You didn’t see me standing behind this very door while you opened up
your hiding place to make sure the stolen money was still there. But I
was here, Jellison. I watched you put that slab back and slip upstairs
again. I even waited a full half hour, though it was the hardest thing I
ever did, so that you might have time to go to sleep, before I went to
find what you had hidden here. It must have worried you a lot, Jellison,
to have to leave it here two years and never have a chance to see
whether any one had found it or not.”

The Yale man paused and gazed with brightly gleaming eyes at the sullen
face of the man before him.

“How do you think I felt, Jellison,” McCormick went on swiftly, “when I
saw the label on the wrappers around those notes? The Metropolis Bank,
of New York, Harlem Branch. Your bank, Jellison, and—my brother’s!”

The black-browed man gave a sudden start, and a look of amazed
incredulity leaped into his eyes.

“Yes, my brother’s,” Archie repeated. “You didn’t know that I was a
brother of the man you ruined and sent to prison, did you? You didn’t
know that I had sworn to ferret out the man who was responsible for his
disgrace and bring him to justice, if it took all my life. You played
your cards cleverly. The evidence you faked deceived even the judge who
tried the case. You didn’t neglect a single step to throw the blame from
your guilty shoulders to those of an innocent man. I wonder if you’ve
ever thought since then about that life you ruined, that reputation you
blackened beyond repair. But, thank God, I’ve found you out! All your
devilish plotting has come to nothing. Jim will be cleared, and you’ll
have a taste of Sing Sing yourself. I hope you’ll like it.”

McCormick’s face was hard and relentless. He loved his older brother
better than any one else in the world. The sight of Jim’s agony and
disgrace had made him suffer torments. The man’s life had been almost
ruined by the fiendish ingenuity of Andrew Jellison.

Released from prison some six months before, Jim McCormick had done his
best to live a new life, but the stigma of the ex-convict clung to him
wherever he went. No one would trust him. He drifted from place to
place, always dropping lower in the social scale, until at last Dick
Merriwell had found him and, learning his story, sent him to his brother
Frank, in the hopes that the latter might do something toward clearing
his name and finding out the real criminal.

It was small wonder, therefore, that Archie felt a bitter, relentless
hatred for the man before him and was determined to mete out to him a
full measure of justice.

Jellison seemed to read this in the clear, cold eyes of the younger man.
He was in a desperate position from which there seemed no possible
escape. Unconsciously he drew one hand across his sweat-stained
forehead.

“I suppose you wonder why I didn’t nab you this morning,” Archie
continued presently. “I wasn’t sure of you. I didn’t know your first
name nor what you looked like. I couldn’t afford to make any mistake, so
I went to Middleberry and wired my brother for a full description. It
came all right, and I was the happiest fellow alive.”

The bank cashier moistened his dry lips.

“I wonder you said nothing to your friends,” he said, in a voice which
held a ring of attempted bravado. “They would have kept me here. How did
you know I wouldn’t get away before you came back?”

His eyes glittered strangely as he watched the Yale man with an eager,
furtive look. Something more than mere curiosity seemed to be beneath
the question.

“You wouldn’t leave without the coin,” Archie answered. “There’s no way
out of here but by the path through the woods, and I was sure you
couldn’t make it before I got back from the village. Besides, I asked
Merriwell to get you out shooting with them this morning so as to
prevent your doing anything while I was gone. I didn’t tell the boys
about it because I wanted to clear Jim myself. I didn’t want anybody
else to have a hand in it, and they haven’t. No one else knows yet,
Jellison; but they will mighty quick.”

“I think not!” snarled the older man ferociously.

With a lightninglike motion of his arm, his right hand slid into a hip
pocket and flashed out again, gripping a very serviceable-looking
revolver.

“I think not!” he repeated triumphantly.

McCormick’s face paled a little as he gazed straight into the steady
barrel of the weapon. But, though his face remained unmoved, his heart
sank within him. What an idiot he had been not to prepare for this!
Somehow, the idea that Jellison would be armed had never entered his
head. He was so much superior, physically, to the older man that his
ability to capture him had seemed a thing beyond question.

“You fool!” sneered Jellison. “Did you think I’d let myself be pinched
by a kid like you?”

Archie smiled rather wryly.

“I was careless, I admit,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t see that you’re
out of the woods yet. What are you going to do about it, now that you
have got the drop on me?”

Jellison did not answer at once. As he stood thinking, a little of the
triumph died out of his face and his forehead crinkled with a network of
worried wrinkles.

What was he going to do about it? He might get away himself—might even
carry off the money; but would he get far? McCormick knew the truth,
and, though the cashier might tie him up long enough to get a good
start, the fellow would be released the instant his friends came back
from their shooting, and the whole lot of them would be on his trail
like a pack of hounds.

Even if he did manage to get out of the country, what could he do then?
The arm of the law was long. It would reach out inexorably after him
over land and sea. He would be hounded from place to place, never
resting, never secure, always knowing that he was followed, feeling sure
that in the end tireless, never sleeping justice would find him out.

It was maddening. To think that all his carefully laid plans should be
thwarted by a mere boy! He had waited so many weary months for this
moment only to have his triumph turn to dust and ashes in his mouth.
Everything had gone so smoothly, too, from the very first. No one had
suspected him for an instant. He had played his cards too well. The only
stumbling block had been the sudden, unexpected turning against him of
old Hickey. That had worried him intensely, but now Hickey was dead, and
he had anticipated no further difficulty. To have the whole carefully
reared edifice topple about his head like a ruined house of cards nearly
drove him mad.

His mind flashed swiftly on into the future. He saw the grip of the law
closing about him inexorably. He would be captured, tried, sentenced. He
would be a convict, walled into that hideous gray prison up the river,
known only by a number, forced to do menial tasks.

And what of his wife—the only human being in the world that he cared
for, besides himself. What would she do? Cling to him? Help and comfort
him, and buoy up his broken spirits? Visit him in his cell and wait
faithfully for his release? No! Marion was not that sort. She would be
furiously angry—hysterical, no doubt. She would bitterly bewail the
moment when she first set eyes on him. Her love for him would turn to
hate, and he would never see her again.

He writhed inwardly at the thought. He could not stand it—he would not.
He glared ferociously at McCormick. But for this fool who had
accidentally stumbled upon his secret he would be safe. No one would
suspect in a thousand years.

A sudden thought came into his mind, making even his callous nature
shrink. He thrust it from him, but it returned again and again,
whispering insidiously that it was the only way out.

He stole a stealthy glance at the youth before him. It would be
possible. Only one life stood between him and utter ruin. He had an
instinctive horror of staining his hands with blood, but what other
course was there left him? With this fellow out of the way, he could
hold up his head once more—could go his way through the world,
apparently without a stigma.

It would be simple, too. He could manage it without suspicion falling
upon him, if he used ordinary care. He had heard enough to know that
McCormick was not one of the original hunting party. The fellow had gone
to Middleberry that morning on an errand which he had not explained to
the others. If he did not return, they would not be surprised. They
would think he had gone back to New Haven.

It would be easy enough to get him into the woods. He could force him to
carry the suit case full of money. That would be natural enough. The
fellow would not suspect any other motive. Jellison knew something of
the wide extent of the forest thereabouts. A body might lie hidden there
for years without any one finding it.

These and a hundred other thoughts flashed through his mind as he stood
there silent. Archie wondered what the fellow was thinking about which
kept him quiet so long. He was curious to know what step the man
proposed taking to escape from the web in which he was involved.

Suddenly Jellison seemed to have made up his mind.

“Put the rest of those bills in the suit case,” he commanded, with a
threatening motion of his revolver.

Archie hesitated an instant.

“Do what I tell you!” snapped Jellison. “I’m a desperate man, and I
won’t answer for the consequences.”

Then McCormick obeyed him. He could not see just what the fellow was
going to do. There was no chance at all for him to escape entirely.
Dropping down on the floor, he hastily crammed the rest of the bank
notes into the bag and then closed and locked it.

“Now take it up and walk ahead of me,” Jellison said, in an icy voice.
“You’ve been so smart butting into my game that I’m going to get a
little use out of you. March!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV

                          THE END OF THE GAME.


Having finished lunch and lounged on the rocks for a little while, the
four Yale men set out toward the lower fields and thickets in search of
quail.

As before, they did not keep together long. Each one had his own ideas
as to where the birds were to be found, so presently they broke up and
continued on their way alone.

Merriwell did not get much pleasure out of it, however. The day was
perfect, the birds fairly abundant, but his mind persisted in flying
back to the farmhouse and the mystery it contained, decidedly to the
detriment of his gunning.

He kept wondering whether Jellison had returned to the house, and, if
so, what he was doing there. Did Jellison know of the money under the
hearth? What had taken Mac to the village?

He was so preoccupied with all these questions that he made a number of
wretched misses, and at last he broke his gun with a snap and slipped
out the shells.

“That’s about all for to-day,” he grumbled. “I can’t do a thing with
this on my mind. I’m going back.”

Now that he had at last come to this decision, he wished he had done so
long ago. There was no telling what might be going on in the house by
the lake. He was a fool to have come out at all and left the treasure
unguarded.

As he tore his way through the tangle of briars and undergrowth it
seemed as if the very bushes were trying to hinder his progress. He
could not get along fast enough, and the result was that when he emerged
into the more open forest back of the house he was a mass of cuts and
scratches and his hands were full of thorns.

He did not stop for that, however, but kept on his way through the trees
at a dogtrot. The woods were pleasantly free from undergrowth, and
underfoot the soft, springy moss carpeted the ground as far as the eye
could reach and made his progress almost noiseless.

He had almost reached the cleared ground about the house—had just caught
a glimpse of the bright sky line ahead, in fact—when he made out the
figure of a man slipping through the trees in front of him.

“Who the mischief is that?” he muttered, with a perplexed frown.

It looked a little like Joblots, but he supposed that the dapper little
fellow was by this time hundreds of miles away. At any rate, he was
determined to find out, and, quickening his pace, he rapidly and
noiselessly approached the fellow, whose back was toward him.

A moment later he saw that it was Joblots. There was no mistaking the
shape of the little fellow’s back and head, and certainly there could be
no duplicate hereabouts of that giddy, gaudy, shiny, new khaki shooting
rig.

Percy evidently had some very definite object in view. He did not loiter
as one enjoying the beauties of the forest, but pressed steadily forward
toward the line of clearing, darting keen glances to right and left in a
manner which was not at all like the absurd little creature they had
come upon the day before. Moreover, his gun was nowhere to be seen.

As he approached, swiftly and noiselessly, a conviction that this time
he was watching the real man, came upon Dick with overwhelming force.
The next moment, as he reached Joblots’ side and caught his arm, he was
sure. The expression on the fellow’s face, startled and annoyed, but not
in the least idiotic, was proof positive.

The next instant a mask fell over the small man’s countenance.

“Grathiouth thaketh!” he gasped. “How you thurprithed——”

“Cut that!” Dick broke in sharply. “That went last night, but there’s no
use in trying to fool me now. Who are you? and what are you after here?”

A bewildered look came into the pale-blue eyes.

“I weally don’t know what——”

“Cut it, I say!” Merriwell repeated, his eyes flashing. “Spit out the
truth or I’ll knock it out of you! Quick, now! Who are you?”

A slowly dawning expression of keen shrewdness came over the other’s
face, and for an instant he eyed Dick coolly and appraisingly.

“You’re no fool, are you?” he said at length, in a totally different
voice. “I reckon you’ve got me straight this time.”

He hesitated for an instant.

“Reckon I’ll have to trust you,” he went on quickly. “I’m after the guys
who cracked the Hartford bank. Now, the question is, are you going to
help me or try to trip me up?”

Dick’s chin squared and his eyes narrowed as the thought of Archie
flashed into his mind. It was incredible—impossible. He would not
believe.

“Who are you after?” he asked at length.

“That feller McCormick,” returned the detective quickly. “He was seen
around the bank just before the robbery. Him an’ his two pals took the
train out in the morning. At Milton they separated. He come here with
the swag, an’ the other two went on. My partner is following them.”

“What makes you think McCormick has the swag?” Dick asked, though his
heart was cold within him.

“I don’t think; I know,” the man answered. “He brought it in a big bag,
and last night he hid it under the hearth in the dining room. I heard
him sneak downstairs, and I slipped through the kitchen and watched him.
There ain’t no doubt about it.”

Dick did not speak. His heart was too full for words. What he had tried
not to believe was true. All the time that he had been watching Mac
through the crack in the door the detective had been on the lookout from
the kitchen. In spite of all, he could not seem to think of Archie as a
thief. How had he ever been roped into such a thing?

“Well, what are you going to do?” he inquired presently, in a listless
voice.

“Pinch him,” returned the detective tersely. “I’ve been holding off in
hopes of getting his pals. Thought he telegraphed ’em this morning, but
he didn’t. The agent wouldn’t tell me what was in the message he sent,
but I did find out that the reply came from Bloomfield. It ain’t likely
his pals are there. It’s too far away.”

Dick caught his breath suddenly.

“Bloomfield!” he exclaimed, and then was silent.

Bloomfield was where his brother Frank’s school was located. Just now
Archie McCormick’s brother, the one who had served a term in State’s
prison, happened also to be there. What did it all mean? Why was Archie
telegraphing to Jim? His thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by the
detective’s voice.

“Well,” he said briskly, “what are you going to do, help me or hinder
me?”

“Neither one or the other,” Merriwell said shortly. “I can’t hinder you,
and I certainly don’t propose to help you arrest a friend of mine,
especially when I don’t believe he’s had anything to do with this
robbery.”

“That’s all rot,” Joblots said quickly. “The thing’s as good as proved.
Well, I’ve got to get busy. There ain’t no time to waste.”

He started on toward the edge of the woods, Dick following him
listlessly. His mind absolutely refused to credit the truth of the
detective’s assertions, even with the proof seemingly as unassailable as
it was. He would not believe that Archie was a thief. There must be some
other explanation of his peculiar actions.

Suddenly Joblots, reaching the fringe of trees which bordered the field,
stopped short.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed. “Here he comes now with the swag. Jellison,
too. What do you think of that! I never suspected Jellison.”

Leaning over his shoulder, Merriwell saw that he was right. Coming
toward the woods from the house were two men, walking in single file.
The first one, unmistakably Archie, carried a large dress suit case
under the weight of which he seemed barely able to stagger. Behind him
walked Andrew Jellison. What did it mean? Was it possible that the two
were friends and partners in this crime? Had Archie deceived him from
the first?

Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he drew a quick breath. The next instant
he was slipping back through the trees and doubling toward the point
where the path entered the forest. Joblots caught up with him.

“You said you wouldn’t hinder,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re going to
warn them.”

“I’m going to help you,” Dick snapped. “Are you blind, man? Don’t you
see what’s happened? Jellison is forcing Mac to go with him. He’s
driving him along with a gun! Hush, now! Don’t make a sound.”

Bewildered, incredulous, the detective followed Merriwell closely. He
could not believe what the Yale man had said, but there was nothing else
to do, except follow in the other’s lead.

In a moment they had reached the edge of the path and crouched in the
bushes. They were just in time. Already the feet of the two men rustled
in the leaves near at hand.

“How long are you going to keep up this farce?” they heard McCormick
say. “You certainly can’t expect to force me to go on to Middleberry.”

“Never you mind!” snapped Jellison. “Shut your face and do as I tell
you!”

The next instant Archie passed Dick’s hiding place, staggering under the
weight of the heavy bag. A moment later Jellison appeared.

Without a single preliminary sound, Merriwell’s lithe body, launched
from the thicket with a spring like that of a panther, struck the
cashier full on the back, and the two crashed to the ground together.
The shock knocked the revolver from the fellow’s hand, and, though he
struggled hard, Dick had no difficulty in holding him down. Then he
looked about him.

Archie had dropped the bag and was staring at the tangle of arms and
legs in a dazed fashion. As he recognized Dick, he gave a shout of joy.

“Thank Heaven, you came in time, old fellow!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been
an awful fool. He was just getting away with all the money.”

A look of triumph appeared on Joblots’ face.

“Ah! ha!” he muttered. “What did I tell you?”

“What money?” Dick demanded. “Quick, Archie! What are you talking
about?”

His face was strained with the suspense of waiting.

“The money he stole from the Metropolis Bank two years ago,” McCormick
answered eagerly. “He’s the thief. He’s the one who sent Jim to prison.
He hid the money under the hearth, expecting to get it after everything
was safe, but old man Hickey wouldn’t let him in. He came last night for
it. I was awake and heard him slip downstairs. I followed him and saw
him take up the stone to see if it was still there. After he had gone, I
looked myself. There’s no doubt about it.”

Joblots listened with a growing expression of mortification and chagrin.

“Yah!” he snapped. “I don’t believe it! You stole that money from the
Hartford bank two nights ago!”

Archie looked at him in utter bewilderment. Then his face darkened.

“You fool!” he ripped out. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing! Look
and see. The wrappers are still around the bills.”

Scowling fiercely at Joblots, he kicked the bag with one foot.

In an instant the detective was on his knees, fumbling with the catch.
Then, as it yielded, he threw back the cover and snatched up one of the
packages. His face was incredulous. Tossing down the packet he picked up
another, and yet another. They were all the same. Presently he arose
slowly to his feet.

“By thunder!” he muttered. “Looks like there was something in it.”

Then he looked keenly at Archie.

“What were you doing around the bank in Hartford at twelve o’clock the
night of the robbery?” he asked significantly.

“Coming home from a smoker,” the Yale man returned quickly.

“How about those guys you were chummy with on the train yesterday?”
persisted Joblots.

“Never saw them before in my life,” McCormick smiled. “We got talking to
each other in the train.”

The detective looked nonplused. Before he had time to think of any more
questions, a sanctimonious voice sounded from the path behind the little
group.

“Behold the wicked man who diggeth a pit and falleth into it himself.
Look’s as if you’d got him this time, gents.”

Dick loosened his grip on Jellison and sprang to his feet. The ruddy
face of the Reverend Jeremy Pennyfeather grinned at him from a little
distance. His eyes were twinkling shrewdly, and he did not look quite so
pious as he had that morning.

“Well!” Dick remarked. “Are you another detective?”

The fellow laughed.

“Guessed right the first crack, my friend,” he returned easily. “I was
sent out by Mr. Frank Merriwell to keep watch of this here gent.”

He indicated the sullen, lowering Jellison, who had raised himself to a
sitting posture.

“Looks like you boys had saved me a lot of trouble. Caught him with the
goods, didn’t you?”

Dick nodded.

“Yes, and I hope he gets the biggest penalty that can be imposed,” he
said sternly. “He’s pretty near ruined one man’s life.”

“There ain’t any doubt he’ll git all that’s coming to him,” the lank
fellow said, in a tone of satisfaction. “We ought to be able to catch
the last train down and give him his first taste of jail to-night.”

“And I’ll go with you,” Archie said decidedly. “I want to see him good
and safe.”

They all finally decided to go as far as Lysander Cobmore’s place, from
which Archie and the detective could proceed alone with the guilty man.
Making their way quickly through the woods, they found the farmer
standing by the barn, a yellow envelope in his hand. His eyes lit up as
they fell upon the dapper figure of Joblots.

“Waal, waal,” he drawled. “If you ain’t saved me a heap o’ trouble. This
here telegram was jest brought from town, and I hadn’t no more notion
than a cat what to do with it.”

He handed the envelope to the detective, who tore it open eagerly. As he
took in the contents, his face darkened and he bit his lips angrily.

“Two days wasted!” he snapped, crumpling the message in his hand, and
tossing it to the ground. “Wouldn’t that frost you!”

The Reverend Pennyfeather made no bones about picking it up, and, when
he had spread it out, this was what he read:

“Hartford crooks nabbed at Westfield. Swag recovered. You are on false
trail. Report at office at once.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XV

                         AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS.


The day was overcast and lowery. It was not actually raining, but the
raw wind from the Sound brought with it a heavy mist, damp and clogging,
which was almost as bad. The crispness was taken out of everything, the
sidewalks were dank and slippery, and pedestrians hurried along the
streets with turned-up collars, turned-down hat brims, and a general air
of shivery unpleasantness, as if they hated themselves, the people they
brushed elbows with, and, above all else, the business which made it
necessary for them to be out in such sloppy weather.

Dick Merriwell, who had returned to New Haven, was no exception to the
general rule as he walked along Chapel Street toward the campus. His
long, loose, tightly buttoned coat, with the collar turned above the
ears, was covered with a multitude of tiny drips of moisture, almost
like hoarfrost. The brim of his soft felt hat was pulled down over his
eyes, and now and then a drop of water gathered at the point and
splashed to the sidewalk.

He had been out on a rather important errand and, being anxious to get
over to the dining hall on time, he did not dawdle, but strode along,
gloved hands deep down in his pockets, growling under his breath
maledictions on the weather which would effectually prevent any football
practice on the field that afternoon.

He was walking on the inside of the sidewalk, close to the shop windows,
and had almost reached the corner of Temple Street when he collided
violently with a man who came dashing out of a store without a glance to
see where he was going.

Both men staggered a little from the shock and the stranger’s black
derby was knocked off. It was rolling toward the gutter when Dick caught
it and turned to restore it to its owner.

“Beg pardon,” he said regretfully. “I had no idea——”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening with astonishment. For a second
he stared in bewilderment at the young man before him.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he ejaculated.

The other man looked scarcely less surprised.

“Exactly!” he returned. “You took the very words out of my mouth.”

His keen, dark eyes were surveying Merriwell in much the same way that
the Yale man looked at him, and his handsome face wore on it just such a
look of whimsical perplexity as distinguished Dick’s countenance.

And smaller wonder. Had the two been twin brothers they could scarcely
have been more alike. There was not a fraction of an inch variation in
their heights. Both were well set-up, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped,
with the lithe grace of carriage which distinguishes the well-developed
athlete. Both had dark hair and equally dark eyes, straight noses, and
well-shaped, sensitive mouths.

The fellow who had come out of the shop looked a trifle older than the
Yale senior, and there were a number of minor points about his face and
figure which would be quite apparent to a close observer when the two
men were together; but, taken all in all, the resemblance was quite
close enough to warrant the surprise which each one manifested at the
sight of the other.

Merriwell recovered his customary poise first.

“It certainly does give a fellow a queer feeling to run up against his
double in this casual sort of way,” he remarked lightly.

“Doesn’t it?” replied the stranger. “You don’t happen to be some
long-lost brother that I’ve never heard of, do you?”

Dick smiled.

“I doubt it,” he returned. “I never had but one, and he looks less like
me than you do. Perhaps somewhere back in the dark ages our ancestors
were the same. My name is Merriwell, by the bye.”

The other gave a sudden start and a look of chagrin flashed over his
face.

“Merriwell!” he exclaimed. “Dick Merriwell, of Yale! Of course. If I
wasn’t the thickest sort of a blockhead that ever walked, I’d have
caught on before.”

The Yale man looked puzzled.

“It isn’t possible we’ve ever met before,” he said quickly. “You’re not
the sort of man I’d be likely to forget in a hurry.”

The stranger laughed.

“We’ve never met, though I’ve tried to meet you a number of times,” he
laughed. “But I’ve seen you more than once. I can’t think why I didn’t
recognize you at once. I suppose it’s because I’ve never had a really
good, close look at you before. It has always been a long-distance
glimpse from the bleachers or the grand stand out on the athletic field,
and you know how football paraphernalia disguises a fellow.

“By Jove! I’m glad I was Johnny-on-the-spot just now, even if I did
nearly knock you down. My name is Austin Demarest, and I certainly am
glad to meet you.”

He held out a slim, brown hand with such an air of pleasure and
camaraderie that Merriwell could not help a feeling of satisfaction as
he clasped it in his own.

“And I you, Mr. Demarest,” he returned quickly. “I have a notion that I
could like you a lot if I ever had a chance. Perhaps that sounds rather
conceited, though.”

“Sort of in the nature of self-praise, eh?” chuckled Demarest. “It would
be tough if a fellow couldn’t get along pretty well with himself,
wouldn’t it?”

Unconsciously they had turned and were walking slowly along Chapel
Street. Each one seemed unable to refrain from throwing occasional swift
glances at the other, as if to satisfy himself that the odd resemblance
was really a concrete fact and not some chance figment of the
imagination.

Presently their eyes met and both burst out laughing.

“It doesn’t seem right,” chuckled Demarest. “I can’t get used to looking
at you as if I were gazing at a mirror.”

“Nor I,” Merriwell agreed. “What sport we could have if you were only in
the university. I can conjure up all sorts of attractive possibilities.”

“Such as substitution in lecture rooms?” suggested Demarest slyly.

“Not so much that as the fun we could have outside,” Dick answered. “By
the way, what was the reason you wanted to meet me so much?”

Demarest did not answer at once. His face clouded and the laughter died
out of his eyes. It was as if the question had recalled to his mind
something disagreeable which had, for the moment, been forgotten. Twice
he glanced hesitatingly at Merriwell in a troubled, doubtful sort of way
as one who does not know quite what course to pursue.

“It’s a rather long story,” he said, at length; “and yet I think I’d
like to tell it, if you have time to listen. Have you got anything on
for a couple of hours? Couldn’t you come in and lunch with me?”

He made a quick gesture toward the New Haven House, at the entrance to
which they had stopped an instant before.

“Why, yes,” Dick returned readily, “I’ll be very glad to. I was on my
way to the dining hall, but this will be much better.”

Demarest’s face cleared.

“Good,” he said tersely. “I’m in the deuce of a hole, and perhaps you
can help me out of it. Even if you can’t, there’s always a certain
satisfaction in pouring one’s woes into a sympathetic ear.”

Dick smiled as they entered the hotel lobby and walked toward the
cloakroom.

“What makes you so sure my ear will be sympathetic?” he asked. “You may
get a terrible disappointment.”

“I guess not,” Demarest returned quickly. “We look so much alike that
the resemblance can’t possibly stop at that. And I’m so blamed sorry for
myself that sometimes I could fairly weep at my own misfortunes. Haven’t
you felt sad sometimes without knowing the reason why?”

Merriwell nodded.

“Once in a while, yes.”

“I knew it!” Demarest exclaimed. “Those were the times when I was being
more severely mauled by the Goddess of Misfortune than usual. Sort of
mental telepathy, you know. But come, let’s not waste any more precious
minutes. I fairly pine to let loose the floodgates of self-confession,
and over there in the corner I see an empty table which had been saved
for us by a special dispensation of providence.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVI

                        AUSTIN DEMAREST, ACTOR.


As Dick settled down on one side of the cozy little table near one of
the windows and unfolded his napkin he felt a pleasant glow of
satisfaction stealing over him. Short as was their acquaintance, he
already felt a distinct liking for the man opposite him, whose handsome
face still impressed him with the odd sensation of looking into a mirror
and seeing his own countenance reflected there.

The fellow was very evidently a gentleman by birth and breeding. That
had been plain from the first moment of their unconventional meeting.
His manners were unexceptionable, and he had a certain air of polished
refinement which was manifest to Merriwell’s keen perception in a dozen
unobtrusive ways.

But more than all else the Yale man was attracted by the other’s manner
of talking. Whimsical, half bantering, almost careless, there was yet
about it an undercurrent of seriousness, which gave the barest hint of
the real man beneath that disguising mask and made Dick eager for a more
thorough knowledge of the character which he felt would prove more
interesting by far than that of the majority of men.

Demarest picked up the card and ordered luncheon with the swiftness and
taste of a connoisseur. He evidently had the rare art of selecting an
attractive meal without spending a half hour at it. Then, folding his
arms loosely, he leaned forward.

“Let’s begin at the beginning,” he said with twinkling eyes. “That
sounds a little unnecessary, I know, but so few people really do begin a
story where they ought. Probably you’ve noticed it, though. For
instance, I am strongly tempted to plunge headfirst into the maelstrom
of my troubles, and it is only by a strong effort of will that I bring
myself to begin where I ought to lead you gradually thence to a
consideration of the worst.”

While he was talking, Dick became conscious of the remarkable beauty and
purity of his voice. His tones were rather low, and he spoke with just a
hint of the fascinating Southern drawl; but every syllable was clear and
distinct, and now and then there was a sudden raising or lowering of the
pitch which had a distinctly dramatic effect. Merriwell found himself
thinking what an admirable actor the man would make, if his histrionic
ability only matched his voice. He was consequently almost startled when
Demarest went on:

“Know, kind second self, that I am an actor. From my earliest days I
longed to tread the magic boards and pour out my soul to vast applauding
audiences through the medium of our immortal dramatists. At the age of
twelve I had learned the parts of _Hamlet_ and _Brutus_. Can you fancy
it? Two years later I had built a puppet stage in the attic of our
country home and organized a company of which I was, of course, the
star. In times of need and scarcity of talent, I have been known to play
several parts in one performance. The admission to those matchless
performances was, I recollect, a penny. You will perceive that those
were the good old days before the trust came upon us and before the
régime of the ubiquitous ticket speculator.”

Dick smiled appreciatively. There was something fascinating in the
fellow’s whimsical, airy manner.

“But why linger on those far-away times?” Demarest went on quickly. “I
only touch upon them that you may see beyond peradventure that I was
destined for the stage. Sad to say, my esteemed family thought
otherwise. What was cute and cunning in a child became mad folly—in
their estimation—when I reached the age of manhood and still persisted
in my determination. I haunted the theatre, breathing in the
indescribable atmosphere of the place as if it were the nectar and
ambrosia of the gods. Then my people became seriously alarmed and packed
me off to Cambridge. At first I was in despair and planned to run away,
but in the end I stuck it out and I have always been thankful. Unknown
to my family, who thought I was following the old-fashioned, stereotyped
course, I specialized in elocution, English literature, and the modern
languages, which have been of inestimable service to me ever since.”

He paused, as the waiter appeared with the first course and deftly
placed it before the two men. Dick was much interested in the recital.

“Of course you persisted in your determination to go on the stage,” he
said quickly. “I imagine you had a rather strenuous time after you
graduated.”

Demarest sighed and made an expressive gesture with his shapely, brown
hands.

“Precisely,” he returned. “Over that let us draw a veil. I won out in
the end, but it was only by a display of the utmost firmness. My father
called it pigheadedness. To this day they are not reconciled, though I
fancy they are beginning to be resigned.

“I took a course in the best dramatic school in New York, and, when I
left that, got a minor position in the company of one of our leading
actor dramatists. It was the merest trifle. I think I had barely half a
dozen lines, but I was rejoiced, for it was a foothold. I had reached
the bottom rung of the ladder up which I meant to climb to the very top.
I worked hard. Before the company left New York I had mastered half a
dozen rôles and was letter-perfect. I had a fancy that I could not
improve on several of them, but my chance did not come until we were
playing in Chicago, where the leading juvenile was suddenly seized with
appendicitis. He had no understudy—happily for me. I went at once to Mr.
Manton and boldly asked for the part. To my astonishment, almost without
word, he agreed to try me out at a rehearsal. I found out afterward that
he had been keeping an eye on me ever since I entered the company. He
was the best friend I ever had.”

He stopped, took a few sips of his bouillon, and leaned back in his
chair.

“You made good?” Dick questioned eagerly. “But of course you must have.”

“Thanks to Mr. Manton, I did,” returned Demarest. “He took infinite
pains with me, as he always did with any one he thought worth the
trouble. I kept that part for the remainder of the season, and the next
fall I had one almost as good, though of a totally different sort. Then
came my patron’s sudden death. It was a terrible blow to me, quite apart
from the fact that I was thrown out of a job; for I had grown to be
amazingly fond of him. But I had little time for repining. I had to find
something to do and it did not prove to be so easy as I had supposed. It
was then that I had my first experience with the so-called theatrical
trust, the members of which control many of the companies and theatres,
in this country.

“At last I landed a job, but it was a good deal of a come-down both in
salary and importance. But even under their auspices I kept on going
slowly upward until I reached a point which would have contented most
men. Perhaps it should have contented me, but I knew I hadn’t reached
the very top, and that I was determined to do, or perish in the attempt.

“About that time—which was last fall, to be explicit—I suddenly decided
to write a play. The germ had been in my mind for a long period, but I
lacked the time to follow it out. Happily the company disbanded earlier
than usual last spring, and I at once set to work on my pet idea. I
succeeded even better than I had hoped, for the play was good stuff and
the leading part a crackajack.”

He paused and smiled at Merriwell.

“This is the point where you step upon the stage,” he went on. “It’s
taken a long time to get there, hasn’t it?”

Dick’s face was full of puzzled curiosity.

“You are the hero of the play,” Demarest explained, with twinkling eyes.

“I?” gasped the Yale man. “I don’t understand.”

The actor pushed aside his salad and rested one arm lightly on the
table.

“It’s this way,” he said, in his low, musical voice. “Though I had never
met you, I had heard a lot about you from mutual friends and had seen
you more than once on the diamond and gridiron. Consequently, when I
decided that the play should be one of college life with the scene laid
in New Haven, I felt that you would make an admirable character for the
leading man. Of course, I ran you in under a different name, but I took
the liberty of using a good many of your characteristics, and while I
wrote I had you constantly in mind. I hope you don’t object, for it was
rather cheeky.”

Merriwell laughed.

“Why, no, I don’t mind; but I’m afraid you’ve been stung. There’s
nothing of the hero about me.”

“Oh, modesty, thou rare and precious quality!” murmured Demarest. “I’ve
made a hero of you, then, against your will. When you’ve read the play
you will see yourself in a different light. But I suppose by this time
you, are wondering where my troubles come in.”

“A little,” Dick confessed. “So far your career seems to have been an
unqualified success.”

“Listen, and you shall hear the dire story. Having the play, it never
occurred to me that I could fail to find an opening. Plenty of actors
with no more ability than I have been advanced to stellar rôles. That
sounds conceited, but it isn’t. It’s a fact. But when I approached my
managers, Buffer and Lane, with the proposition, they turned me down.
Said the play was all right and wanted to buy it, but wouldn’t give me
the leading part. They wanted that for one of their pets. Of course, I
refused to let them have it and went to another firm, who were not
supposedly connected with Buffer and Lane.

“It was the same story there. Nothing doing for me. I tried still
another man with the same result, and then I got mad. If they wouldn’t
bring me out I’d produce the play myself. I knew it would make a hit if
it got a chance, and I had lately received a legacy from my grandmother,
which was enough to cover all initial expenses of the production. So I
went blithely on my way, had the scenery done, engaged the company, got
the costumes made. I went to one of the independent managers in New York
and got him to promise to put me on at his theatre providing the play
tried out successfully. And he insisted that the opening performance
should be given in New Haven. Of course, he was right. College men are
the best critics in the world, and if a play, especially of this sort,
succeeds here, it will go anywhere.”

Dick nodded understandingly.

“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “What’s your trouble, then? Why don’t
you produce it at one of the small theatres?”

Demarest shrugged his shoulders.

“Simply because Buffer and Lane object, and the trust, booking Buffer
and Lane’s companies, has lent an acquiescent ear. They absolutely
refuse to give me a single date at either place. They say every night is
booked for the remainder of the season.”

“What nonsense!” Merriwell exclaimed. “Surely there must be some open
nights.”

“Of course there are,” Demarest returned quickly. “But not for yours
truly. Don’t you see their game? If they can prevent my appearing in New
Haven, they figure that I won’t get a show anywhere, and then they
probably imagine that I’ll crawl and let them have the play.”

Dick’s face flushed and his eyes flashed angrily.

“What a lot of sharks they must be!” he exclaimed. “By Jove! I wish you
could find some place they don’t control and beat them out at their own
game.”

“You can’t wish it any more fervently than I do,” Demarest returned
seriously.

“Have you tried the Strand?” Merriwell asked presently.

The actor nodded.

“Yes, and was politely but firmly turned down.”

For a few minutes there was silence. Demarest toyed with his ice, while
Merriwell gazed thoughtfully at the tablecloth. Suddenly he raised his
head and his eyes brightened.

“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed eagerly. “The old Concert Hall. I’ll bet
none of the New York managers control that!”

Demarest looked dubious.

“The Concert Hall!” he echoed. “But that’s got a—a—well, a reputation,
hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has,” Dick admitted, “but I don’t see why that should stand in
your way. If it was made clear that you were unable to bring out a play
at any of the other houses, I don’t think people would stay away on
account of the reputation of that house. Certainly the fellows wouldn’t.
They go to see everything in the nature of college plays which comes to
town. I admit that, more often than not, they go with the idea of
picking flaws in the piece, but if it’s what you say it is, it ought to
succeed. At any rate, you’d have your audience, and it would be up to
you to do the rest.”

Demarest’s eyes brightened and he nodded emphatically.

“You can trust me for that,” he said decidedly. “All I want is the
audience. The play’s all right. Buffer and Lane would never have made an
offer for it if it hadn’t been pretty good. I don’t know but that idea
of yours will prove a life saver, Merriwell. I was just about at my
wit’s end, but you’ve put new heart into me.”

Summoning the waiter, he paid the check, and they walked out to the
lobby.

“I believe I’ll go down there right away,” Demarest said, after a
moment’s consideration. “It’s the only chance left, and I have got to
decide one way or another at once. It isn’t fair for me to keep the
company on a string any longer if there’s not going to be an opportunity
of opening here. Won’t you come along with me? You’ve started the thing
going, and it’s only fair to see me through.”

“Of course I will,” Dick said quickly. “I’m so keen about it, I don’t
want to miss a single trick.”

Getting into their coats, they hurried out of the hotel and five minutes
later had reached the old Concert Hall. It was a house of good size and
in its prime had been the scene of many well-known productions, but for
years having been given over to vaudeville, moving pictures, and shows
of a certain grade, it was in a wretched state of dinginess.

Demarest was almost discouraged as he stood in the centre of the
orchestra and looked about him. The place seemed utterly impossible, but
presently his trained eye took in the various good points, which
included an ample stage, though, at present, it was cluttered with odds
and ends and backed with faded, crude, fearfully painted scenery.

“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I can’t imagine a high-grade
audience consenting to spend three hours here.”

“All the same,” Dick said quickly, “a little work will make a wonderful
improvement. How’s the stage? Is it big enough?”

“Plenty. My sets will fit all right, but I shudder to think what that
drop curtain looks like.”

He smiled wryly as he glanced up at the rolled-up curtain.

“I’ve never seen it, but I should imagine it was the limit,” Merriwell
answered. “Couldn’t it be painted over, or something like that?”

“I suppose so.”

After another searching look around, Demarest led the way through a door
back of the boxes to the stage itself. It certainly was dilapidated, and
the dressing rooms were cramped and bad, but the young actor was at his
wit’s end; and when he left the place an hour later he had engaged the
house for Thursday night of that week, had the signed lease in his
pocket and, more than that, had paid the money down. He had learned to
leave nothing to chance. He had a feeling that the moment the members of
the trust learned of the step he had taken they would do their best to
prevent his opening even at the Concert Hall, and he was determined that
they should not succeed.

That afternoon was a busy one. Before dark, Demarest had engaged an army
of cleaners, scrubwomen, and painters, to report the first thing in the
morning at the theatre. He had gone to the printer’s and ordered special
paper printed in which was stated that, owing to the impossibility of
obtaining a date at any other theatre, Austin Demarest, the talented
young actor who had done such good work in the productions of the late
Richard Manton, and latterly under the management of Buffer and Lane,
was forced to bring out his new drama of college life, “Jarvis of Yale,”
at the Concert Hall, which had been especially renovated and redecorated
for the occasion.

These bills were to be spread broadcast on the boards all over the city
the next morning, and when Demarest reached the hotel toward five
o’clock he had reason to be thoroughly satisfied with the afternoon’s
work.

Merriwell had accompanied him on his rounds through the city. His
interest and enthusiasm were wrought to a high pitch, and his
suggestions on various points had been of much service to the actor.

“It certainly was a lucky moment when I ran you down this morning,”
Demarest said, as they dropped down in some chairs in the lobby. “I was
simply up against a dead wall, and now things seem to be coming around
all right, thanks to your advice and suggestions. I really think we’ll
be able to make a halfway decent place out of the old barn. Of course it
won’t be anything like one of the other houses, but it will be clean.”

“And the best part of it is that you will get ahead of the fellows who
have tried to keep you under,” Dick said quickly. “It makes me hot under
the collar every time I think of the way they’ve tried to keep you down
so that they can get the play for themselves. By the way, old fellow, I
hope you have a copy of it here. I’m no end anxious to read it.”

“And I want you to,” Demarest returned emphatically. “I want your
critical opinion of it. I expect there’s a lot of places in it where you
can suggest improvements. I’ll give you a copy before you go to-night,
and you can read it and let me know what you think of it in the
morning.”

As he spoke, he picked up a newspaper which lay on the next chair and
glanced carelessly down the columns. Suddenly he stiffened and drew a
quick breath.

“Blazes!” he burst out the next instant.

“What’s the matter?” Dick asked quickly.

Demarest’s face was set and a little pale. He was evidently keeping a
grip on himself only by a great effort.

“Look at that!” he cried, extending the paper. “Just look at that, will
you? If that isn’t a put-up job, I’d like to know what you’d call it.”

Dick snatched the paper from his nervous fingers and bent over the page.
As he read the paragraph which the actor had pointed out, his eyes
narrowed and a frown appeared on his forehead.

“Friday—Arcadian Theatre,” he murmured swiftly, “first production on any
stage—John Tennant’s great drama of college life, ‘Fenwick of
Yale’—management Ralph Bryton.”

“Great Scott!” Merriwell exclaimed, looking up swiftly. “They’re trying
to get ahead of you! Trying to cut you out by producing a college play
with almost exactly the same name! What a dirty trick!”

“Read the rest of it!” Demarest exclaimed angrily.

Unable to contain himself, he took the paper from Dick’s hand.

“Listen: ‘Great football scene. Nothing like it ever shown on the
stage.’ My scene, Merriwell, I’ll wager anything! ‘Tremendously strong
third act.’ My third act is the climax of the play! ‘The whole play from
start to finish is so true to life, and so filled with the atmosphere of
a real college town, that the spectator will find it hard to believe he
is not watching a concrete segment taken directly from the life in the
greatest university in America. The management has been fortunate in
securing the services of the following actors and actresses for this
important production.’”

Crumpling the paper in a shapeless mass, Demarest tossed it angrily
aside.

“I’d be willing to take my oath, Merriwell,” he said bitterly, “that
those villains have stolen the very plot of my play; or, if they
haven’t, they’ve got something which follows as close on the lines of
‘Jarvis, of Yale,’ as they dared, and still be within the law. They open
Friday, you see. I did not intend having my first night until next
Monday, until we got the Concert Hall to-day, so they thought they’d get
ahead of me. Great Scott, man! If they put their play on first, there
wouldn’t be a handful come to my opening. It would be the greatest frost
you ever saw.”

“But you’re all right,” Dick said eagerly. “You open Thursday. They’ll
be the ones to get the frost.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Demarest said, in a worried tone. “People
seeing a college play billed at the Arcadian for Friday are not likely
to go to such a hole as the Concert Hall the night before for
practically the same thing. They’ll think that I am the one who is
copying their play, and Ralph Bryton will do his best to have that
impression circulated. He hates me like poison and has been the one more
responsible than any one else for the trust turning me down.”

Suddenly the actor gave a start.

“The paper!” he cried. “I never thought! They’ll get theirs out ahead of
ours, and there won’t be a square foot of boarding left by the time mine
are printed in the morning.”

“But they don’t know about what you’ve done to-day,” Dick objected.
“They don’t know you’ve hired the Concert Hall.

“They’ll find out quick enough when they go to Lawford in the morning,”
Demarest said despairingly. “He’ll tell them about my bills. The printer
won’t have them ready until ten o’clock, and they’ll pay Lawford a bonus
to put theirs up instead of mine. I know them and their tricks. And if
the town isn’t well papered, we might as well give up on the spot.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVII

                        THE POWER OF PERSUASION.


It seemed as if this final catastrophe was the last straw which broke
the camel’s back. Austin Demarest had held out bravely against the many
blows which fickle fortune had showered upon him. He had deliberately
placed himself in opposition to a great power, and, with smiling face
and never-failing courage, had resolutely held out against their
machinations.

They had shut the doors of most reputable theatres against him, and he
had circumvented them. They had threatened members of the theatrical
profession with their displeasure if any of them agreed to play for
Demarest, but in spite of that, the young actor had gathered together a
very fair company, many of whom had signed with him knowing full well
that they were spoiling their chances with the syndicate, but trusting
to the talented, magnetic young actor-manager to pull things through.
The leading lady, Marion Gray, had refused an offer from Buffer and Lane
of twice the money Demarest was able to give her, but it was rumored
that she was so attached to the latter that she would have played for
him without any salary at all. Demarest himself seemed to be the only
one of the company who had not observed the significant signs on the
part of the very attractive young lady, and had gone on his way seeming
serenely unconscious of the state of affairs.

But now this last blow had utterly unnerved him. It was so totally
unexpected and had come at a time when he had at last begun to see light
through the dark clouds, that it was no wonder he was discouraged. There
seemed to be no way by which he could come out ahead this time, and he
sat there in the big leather chair, a feeling of hopeless failure in his
heart.

Dick Merriwell was not so easily downed. He snatched out his watch and,
with a swift glance at it, sprang to his feet.

“Come on, old fellow,” he said incisively. “We haven’t got a minute to
lose.”

Demarest stood up slowly, instinctively. His eyes were puzzled.

“What——” he began.

Dick caught him by the arm and drew him toward the door.

“Hustle!” he cried. “Don’t stop to argue!”

“But where——”

“The printer’s!” broke in Merriwell. “We’ve got to get those bills done
to-night!”

By this time they were outside the hotel and hurrying down the street.
Though he did not quite see what his new friend had in mind, Demarest
was unconsciously heartened by the Yale man’s decisive manner, and hope
began to dawn again in his breast.

“You can’t give up now,” urged Merriwell, as they dodged around a corner
and went down the side street almost at a run. “You’ve got to beat them.
You’ve got your regular paper ready. We must get this special work
printed and placed before morning. It’s the only way. It’s simply got to
be done!”

“But how can you?” objected the actor. “The printers won’t stay over
hours. Lawford won’t put them up in the dark.”

“We can try,” Dick ripped out. “If he won’t put them up, somebody else
can. It’s a question of your whole future; you can’t lay down now.”

Little by little, under the dominating influence of Merriwell’s
personality, Demarest’s courage returned and his face brightened. They
reached the printing house just as the whistle blew and, dashing
upstairs, encountered a swarm of men hurrying down.

“Stop a minute, fellows, will you?” Dick said quickly.

The men paused, a wondering throng, on the stairs. They could see
Merriwell’s face but dimly in the light from the single flaring gas jet.

“That order for the bills of the ‘Jarvis of Yale’ production at the
Concert Hall which was brought in this afternoon,” he said rapidly but
distinctly. “Have they been started yet?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice from the back of the crowd
growled:

“Ain’t mor’n half set up.”

“They’ve got to be done by midnight,” Merriwell went on swiftly. “It’s a
matter of life and death to my friend, here, boys. He’s simply got to
have them then, or he goes under. Won’t enough of your fellows stay
to-night to get them out? Every one who helps us out will get a
ten-dollar bill.”

“The day’s work is done,” grumbled one man. “I ain’t goin’ ter work no
overtime.”

“Me neither,” growled another.

“Why in thunder didn’t yer bring ’em in this morning, if yer wanted ’em
in such a rush?” snapped a third.

“I wants me supper.”

There was a restless, forward movement of the crowd, eager to be gone,
and Demarest groaned softly. In that single instant he saw his well-laid
plans crumbling into nothingness, his fortune swept away, himself
ruined. Then Merriwell began to speak again.

“Just a minute, boys, till I tell you a little more,” he said quickly.
“My friend is an actor who has got the theatrical trust down on him. He
wanted to bring out his play in New Haven, at the Arcadian. They
wouldn’t let him have that theatre—nor any other in town. They shut him
out, but they forgot the old Concert Hall. That’s why the show is coming
off there. And now the trust is going to put a play on at the Arcadian
Friday night which is as near my friend’s play as they can make it. They
think they’ll get ahead of him and make him draw a frost. If these bills
aren’t up before daybreak that’s what will happen. Won’t you fellow
change your minds and help us?”

He had chosen his argument skillfully. The mention of a trust to the
average workingman is like a red flag to a bull. They hated the thought
of these monstrous creations of modern commerce, and perhaps there was
reason for that hate. At any rate, the prospect of foiling a great
combination of capital was the only thing which could possibly have
induced those printers to work overtime that night, and even at that
their consent was rather grudging.

“Well, if yer puts it that way,” one said hesitatingly. “I s’pose I kin
stay. How about it, Bill?”

“I’ll stay if you will.”

“Say, mister,” piped up a small boy, one of the devils, “who are you,
anyhow?”

“Dick Merriwell,” the Yale man answered.

“Golly!” exclaimed the youngster, open-mouthed. “The twirler! What d’yer
think of dat, Pete?”

He grinned engagingly at Merriwell.

“I’ll help yer out, Dick,” he said impudently.

“Good boy, kid,” the Yale man laughed. “You’re the stuff, all right.”

That seemed to be the turning point. Many of the men knew Merriwell, who
was a popular idol among all classes of baseball fans, and the prospect
of doing him a good turn, and at the same time thwarting a trust, so
appealed to the men that the majority of them turned about and went back
to the printing rooms.

The foreman was won over without a great deal of trouble. He was a
thrifty Scotchman, and the prospect of the twenty dollars which Dick
promised him considerably more than overbalanced the inconvenience of
going without his supper and curtailing his night’s rest.

Consequently, when Dick and the young actor left the place half an hour
later, the men were all busy setting up the bills, which would be ready
for the presses in very short order.

The two stopped at a near-by restaurant and ordered a good supply of
sandwiches and coffee sent up to the printers, and then hustled off to
find Lawford, the billposter.

“By Jove, old fellow!” Demarest said, as they turned into Chapel Street
again and walked swiftly past the green. “You certainly did that trick
to perfection. I shall be your debtor all my life for having saved the
situation.”

“We’re not out of the wood yet, by a long shot,” Merriwell returned. “I
have a notion that this Lawford will be more of a proposition to bring
around. By this time he must have the bills of the Arcadian play, and
your friend Bryton has learned about your leasing the Concert Hall. He’s
probably paid Lawford well for running his bills in ahead of yours.”

“I’m afraid so,” Demarest agreed. “But it’s the limit, when I made the
bargain with him first.”

“Still, Lawford gets all of his business from the trust, and he can’t
afford to have them down on him,” Dick said. “However, I think we can
manage it some way.”

Reaching the billposter’s place of business, they found that the
proprietor had gone, leaving one of his men to shut up the place.

“You don’t know where he can be found, then?” Dick questioned.

The fellow shook his head.

“He didn’t say. Likely he’s home, though.”

“Where does he live?” Merriwell asked.

“Down to West Haven.”

Dick considered a moment. That was a good ways off, and it was extremely
questionable whether the results of a trip down there would repay the
effort. He had a pretty accurate notion that the billposter had been
primed by Ralph Bryton. As he hesitated, he looked swiftly about the
office, and his eyes lit up suddenly as they fell upon the great piles
of paper stacked in one corner. On the top sheet he caught a glimpse of
the words, “Fenwick, of Yale.”

That was enough. Bryton had been here, and it would be quite useless to
approach Lawford.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                          WHILE OTHERS SLEPT.


After his discovery of the syndicate bills, Merriwell turned back and
bestowed a brief, but comprehensive glance at the man before him. He was
a young fellow of medium height, with a rather pleasant face and
fiery-red hair. He was roughly dressed and his faded overalls were
smeared with paste. Dick decided that he was one of the laborers who did
the actual work of billposting. He seemed like a pretty good sort, and
the Yale man seldom went wrong in sizing up a man. Still he hesitated,
wondering whether he had better put into execution the plan which was in
his mind.

At last he determined to risk it. He could think of no other way, and
the bills must be on the boards before daylight.

“Do you want to earn ten dollars?” he asked presently.

The fellow grinned all over his freckled face.

“That’s me, guv’ner,” he replied promptly. “I sure do.”

“Would you be willing to stay up all night to do it?” Merriwell went on.

“Sure, Mike!”

The Yale man’s eyes wandered to the big buckets of paste which ranged
along the wall.

“How long would it take you to mix up a lot of paste like that?” he
inquired.

The billposter looked puzzled.

“About an hour or so,” he returned. “What yer after?”

Dick smiled.

“I want about that much ready at twelve o’clock sharp,” he returned. “I
also want three or four big brushes that you put it on with. Where do
you suppose I could get those?”

The fellow waved his hand to where a lot of them hung in rows against
the wall.

“What’s the matter with them?” he inquired. “The old man’ll never miss
’em if you get ’em back by six o’clock. He’s got a big job on for
to-morrer, an’ he’s going to start at six.”

“I don’t want to use his brushes,” Dick said quickly. “Isn’t there some
place around town where I could buy some?”

The billposter shook his head.

“Not as I knows of,” he answered. “Them brushes is made special.”

Merriwell hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“All right,” he said, “we’ll use those, then. I can pay Lawford well for
the use of them after the business is over. Got that straight, now? Have
the paste and brushes ready for me at midnight. We’d better take a
couple of those small ladders, too. And you are to stay here till we
bring the things back. See?”

The fellow nodded.

“Yep. But, say, guv’ner, this here ain’t goin’ to do me no harm with the
boss, is it?”

“Not unless you tell him yourself about it,” the Yale man answered. “I
promise you no one will ever get it from me, but I’ll be frank with
you——”

He paused, and looked inquiringly at the fellow.

“Brown’s me name,” the latter informed him. “Bill Brown.”

“Well, Bill,” Dick continued, “I may as well tell you that if Lawford
ever found out that you had made paste for me, and loaned me his
brushes, he would probably fire you on the spot. But, as I say, I don’t
see how he’s going to find it out. I’ll leave the money for the brushes,
and all the rest, in his desk, and he’ll have no way of knowing where it
came from.”

Brown hesitated, apparently turning the matter over in his mind.
Presently he looked up.

“Make it fifteen, and I’m your man,” he said.

Dick smiled.

“I’ll go you one better. It’s worth twenty to me, and here’s half of it
now.”

He handed the fellow a ten-dollar bill.

“T’anks, guv’ner,” Brown said fervently. “You’re a sure-enough gent.
I’ll have the stuff ready fur you at eleven. Might a bloke ask what
you’re going to do with it?”

“I reckon I’d better not tell you, Bill,” Merriwell smiled. “Then you
won’t be forced to hide anything more than necessary.”

As soon as they were out of the building, Demarest gave vent to his
enthusiasm.

“By Jove, Merriwell!” he exclaimed admiringly. “You certainly have got a
great head. You remind me of a general laying out the details of a
campaign. What’s the next step?”

Dick chuckled.

“Get enough of the fellows to put up the bills,” he explained.

Demarest roared with laughter.

“Great,” he gasped; “simply great! That’s a master stroke, getting Yale
students to turn billposters! But, say, will they do it, do you think?”

“Do it!” Dick echoed. “They’ll fairly fall over themselves to get the
chance. Perhaps you Cambridge boys were too staid for this sort of
diversion, but I don’t think I shall have any difficulty persuading some
of my friends, especially when it’s in such a righteous cause.”

It took but a short time to reach the campus, and Dick led the way up
the stairs of Durfee, taking the steps three at a time, while Demarest
followed him more slowly. Bursting into his room, he found quite a crowd
of fellows there, who at once set up a shout at the sight of him.

“By thunder!” Brad Buckhart, his roommate, exclaimed. “It’s about time
you showed up, you old maverick. Had us worrying our heads clean off
wondering whether Harvard had roped you.”

“Yes,” put in Eric Fitzgerald. “We were just about to organize a posse
to hunt you up. Where’ve you——”

He broke off abruptly, his eyes fastened with a look of horror on the
entering Demarest, while he threw out both hands as if to ward off
something unspeakably awful.

“Take him away!” he gasped, rolling his eyes ceilingward. “This is
dreadful! I haven’t had a drink in weeks, and yet I see two Merriwells.
It’s worse than snakes! For heaven sakes, somebody take one of ’em
away!”

Exclamations of astonishment arose from the other fellows at the sight
of the amazing resemblance between the two men.

“Stop your nonsense, Fitz!” Dick admonished. “Fellows, this is my
friend, Austin Demarest, who is going to bring out a corking Yale play
here next Thursday.”

“What’s the relation, pard?” Buckhart grinned, as he shook hands with
the actor. “You sure had me guessing for a minute.”

“Me, too,” put in Rudolph Rose. “It’s the greatest thing I ever saw.”

“None whatever,” Dick explained. “I met Mr. Demarest for the first time
this morning, but I can assure you he’s the goods, all right.”

Fitzgerald withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, with a profound sigh of
relief.

“Delighted to meet you,” he said fervently, as he clasped Demarest’s
hand. “For a moment I had a horrid thought—— However, we won’t dwell on
that. Jove! I can’t get used to the two of you yet.”

After everybody had met the stranger, and the crowd settled down to
comparative quiet, Dick took the floor.

“We’ve got a ticklish job on hand to-night, boys,” he said earnestly,
“and I want your help. Demarest has a dandy play, which he has got to
bring out in New Haven. He’s up against the trust, and they won’t let
him have a decent theatre, so he’s taken the old Concert Hall. We
thought everything was settled all right this afternoon, but now it
appears that the trust has a play as nearly like Demarest’s as possible,
even to the name, which they are going to shove into the Arcadian on
Friday. It’s a put-up job, you see, to give him a frost. They’ve hired
Lawford to cover the boards with their bills to-morrow morning, though
Demarest had a previous understanding with the fellow that his paper
would go up as soon as it was printed. We’ve persuaded the printers to
work overtime, and the bills will be ready at midnight. Now, what I want
to do is to get them on the boards before daylight. Also every dead wall
we can get the privilege on. Catch on?”

“You bet!” exclaimed Fitz joyfully. “You want us to turn billposters.”

“Exactly,” Dick nodded. “How about it?”

“Of course we will!”

“Great!”

“Gee! What a circus that will be!”

“Bring on your bills, pard, and we’ll get ’em up or perish in the
attempt.”

The assent was perfectly unanimous. Every one seemed to think it a great
lark, and was eager for the fun to commence. But there was still two
hours before the bills would be ready, so Dick took the opportunity of
giving the boys a more comprehensive sketch of what Demarest was up
against, and the troubles he had had to get a hearing for the play.

The fellows were all much interested, and then and there they resolved
themselves into an informal committee of six to spread the news
throughout the university, and collect as large an audience as possible
for Thursday night.

About eleven o’clock they all sallied forth in high spirits, and made at
once for the printing establishment. Here they found that the presses
were all running full blast, and the bills close to completion. The
foreman assured Dick that the last one would be run off in about half an
hour, so the latter dispatched Buckhart to see if he couldn’t find some
sort of a vehicle in which they could transport the paper. That was the
one point on which he had slipped up. He had expected that they would be
able to carry the bills, but a sight of the volume already printed
showed him at once that this was impossible.

While Buckhart was gone, Merriwell and Demarest paid all the men off,
and thanked them heartily for the help they had given, besides
presenting each of them with two tickets for the show.

Precisely at half-past eleven the last bill was run off, the great
presses stopped, and the printers grabbed up coats and hats, and hurried
out of the place. The foreman remained a few minutes to show Dick which
were the large bills to be posted up, and which the smaller posters to
attach to the colored lithographs for the store windows, which they
proposed distributing the moment the shops opened in the morning. They
were really counting more on these than the announcements on the boards,
for they felt pretty certain that the latter would not remain uncovered
long, once Lawford got started with his work for the trust in the
morning. They would be up long enough, however, to attract considerable
attention, and Dick had a little scheme by which he hoped to circumvent
Lawford if the latter did cover them.

Presently Brad appeared, with the announcement that he had a cab below,
and all hands turned to to carry the bills downstairs. In the street
outside they found a rather dilapidated specimen of four-wheeler, which
the Texan had picked up at the station, into which they piled the paper
until there was room for nothing else.

The driver seemed to take it as some college prank, and, assured of his
money, which he had obtained in advance, looked upon them with a
tolerant eye.

At the billposter’s, they found Brown on the alert, and the paste and
brushes ready for them. His eyes bulged a little when he saw the cab
full of paper, but he asked no questions. He rather hoped that the
night’s work would hit his boss hard, for Lawford was a hard man to work
for, and was cordially hated by the fellows under him.

Several buckets of the paste, the brushes, and two ladders were wedged
into the cab somehow, and then the fun commenced.

Merriwell’s plan of campaign was masterly. He avoided carefully the
central part of the town, in which the cops were apt to be more or less
wide awake, and proceeded at once to the outskirts, where they could
work undisturbed.

Quietly and swiftly, board after board was covered with the flaring
announcements. Many of them were slapped on crooked, and several times
they got the different sections misplaced, so that the bottom part came
first, but Demarest was rather pleased at that than otherwise. He
thought it would attract more attention than if they had been put on
with the customary skill and regularity.

The fellows were having the time of their lives. Before long they were
smeared with paste from head to foot, but that did not matter. They
slathered the bills on as if their lives depended on their speed, and
the little spice of risk—for the cops were pretty sure to question such
proceedings if they got onto the game—only added to the enjoyment.

Working with the utmost method, they slowly circled the town,
approaching nearer and nearer to the central zone of danger. Several
times they had narrow escapes, but they always managed to pull out
before the cops actually caught them, though more than once they were
obliged to run, leaving only the top section of the bill affixed to the
board. It is safe to say, however, that those incomplete sections,
breaking off abruptly in the middle of the announcement, attracted more
attention from the passers-by in the morning, and stimulated their
curiosity to a much greater extent than anything else.

At last they reached Chapel Street, just opposite the campus, and here
Fitz conceived the audacious scheme of putting one of their bills on the
board in front of the Arcadian Theatre. This was carrying the war into
the enemy’s camp with a vengeance, but Dick at once perceived the
advertising value of such a thing, and they proceeded to plan it with
care.

An officer’s beat took in Chapel Street between York and Orange, a
matter of five blocks. Merriwell stationed the cab well around the
corner on High Street, and then carried the paste and one of the bills
into a doorway nearer the corner. There they thoroughly pasted the first
part of the bill, while Buckhart, keeping watch at the corner, gave the
word when the cop was well away from the front of the theatre.

As soon as the coast was clear, Dick and Fitz dashed out, carrying the
pasted sheet between them, while Rudolph Rose came along with the brush.
A few deft dabs with the latter served to fix the paper to the board,
and then they darted into concealment again, to await another round on
the part of the officer.

He passed the billboard the first time without noticing the change, but
on his return trip, he seemed to be attracted by the unfinished look of
the thing.

“Begorrah!” the listening fellows heard him mutter. “It’s careless
Johnny Lawford’s min is gettin’ to be. Runnin’ off an’ l’avin’ the board
half done. ‘Jarvis of Yale.’ A foine show’, I doubt not.”

The moment his back was turned, the next sheet was added to the board,
and the announcement completed. The fellows did not stay to hear the
officer’s comments on his return trip. But they laughed gleefully as
they pictured his astonishment when he saw, the bill of a Concert Hall
production before the Arcadian Theatre.

It was nearly five o’clock when the empty pails and brushes were
returned to the billposter’s establishment. Bill Brown promptly hung the
latter in their place, washed out the pails, and put them away. Then,
locking the door, he departed with a hearty good night, one hand
clutching two crisp ten-dollar notes, thrust deep in his trousers
pocket.

The Yale men accompanied Demarest to the hotel, and helped him carry in
what remained of the bills. Then they left him, and made their way to
their various quarters in high glee at the success of the night’s work.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIX

                       THE RAGE OF RALPH BRYTON.


A good many people in New Haven were surprised next morning when they
read the bills announcing the production of an apparently decent play at
the old Concert Hall. Some of the older inhabitants harked back to the
good old days, when that was the only theatre in town, and were thereby
moved to read the bill to the very end, thus becoming interested in the
contest between the young actor-manager and the trust, which was exactly
what Demarest wanted.

John Lawford, the billposter, was more than surprised. He was puzzled,
perplexed, and furiously angry. He saw at once that Demarest had stolen
a march on him, and he did his best to nullify the advantage gained, by
covering the boards as swiftly as possible with the announcements of the
Arcadian production. Although he had made a verbal agreement with the
young actor to give his paper space, he was able to slide out of it
because there had been no written contract, and he dared not disobey the
emphatic commands of Ralph Bryton, on whom his bread and butter
depended.

But all this took time. It was nearly noon before he had obliterated the
greater part of the work of the Yale students last night, and a good
many people had seen the original bills, and read them through. Their
interest was only stimulated when they noticed them, one by one, being
covered by the announcements of the trust. It seemed to bear out
Demarest’s statement that he was being hounded by the syndicate men, and
a good many citizens decided on the spot to attend the performance of
“Jarvis of Yale,” and see what it was like.

While Lawford was working so hard, Austin Demarest was putting in some
equally effective licks. Bright and early he started out with two boys
and a quantity of lithographing, his regular paper, and in a very short
time had obtained points of vantage in all the important shop windows,
for which he paid on the spot, and about eleven he returned to the hotel
empty-handed, but with a feeling of intense satisfaction at having
circumvented Ralph Bryton effectually.

He had scarcely entered the lobby before his eyes fell upon that
gentleman himself, and he saw at once that the representative of the
trust was not in the best sort of humor. He was striding up and down the
floor, pulling his heavy mustache, and scowling fiercely under beetling
brows.

He was a man of about forty, heavily built, and a little inclined toward
corpulency. His features were good, but his expression was domineering,
as if he were accustomed to have his own way, and would fly into a
passion when thwarted.

He had slept late that morning, secure in the consciousness that he had
done a good day’s work, and effectually prevented the man he hated from
having any sort of a success in New Haven, even if he once secured a
foothold.

After a leisurely breakfast, he took a stroll down the street, and his
astonishment and anger can better be imagined than described when his
eyes fell upon the announcement which graced the board in front of the
Arcadian Theatre. Lawford had not yet reached that part of the city.

Bryton stormed and raged, and even went so far as to try and tear the
paper off, but the paste had been well mixed, and his efforts were in
vain.

Fairly foaming at the mouth, he dashed back to the hotel, and tried to
get Lawford on the telephone, but no one answered him. He had just come
away from the booth after a second attempt when his eyes fell upon the
smiling face of Austin Demarest, and he promptly crossed the lobby, and
confronted the young actor.

“You young blackguard!” he frothed. “How dare you put up posters in
front of my theatre? How dare you use any of the boards which I control
for your rotten paper?”

Demarest’s eyes narrowed.

“Just keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Bryton,” he said coldly. “I
suppose it is rather difficult for you to behave like a gentleman, but a
little more of such talk as that, and I’ll have to hand you something.”

The older man glared at his antagonist, and his face grew purple, but he
managed to keep a grip on his temper, for he realized that his anger had
carried him farther than he had meant.

“You’ve no right to use the boards in this city, which I control,” he
said, in a calmer tone.

“I wasn’t aware that you controlled any of them,” Demarest returned
coolly. “I labored under the impression that they were the property of
John Lawford, with whom I made arrangements early yesterday afternoon to
post my paper.”

Bryton gasped.

“But I told him not——” he began, and then stopped abruptly.

“Exactly,” put in the actor. “You ordered him to throw me down after he
had explicitly agreed to do my work. That’s like you, Bryton. You can’t
blame me for taking things into my own hands.”

Bryton’s eyes flashed angrily.

“Much good it will do you!” he snapped. “By noon your stuff will be
covered.”

“Just the same, my purpose will have been accomplished,” Demarest smiled
tauntingly. “People will have all morning to see the announcements, and
then they will wonder why your paper is plastered over them. I shall
take care that they find out. I have a friend or two on the New Haven
press. You slipped up on the shop windows, didn’t you?”

His voice held a note of malicious satisfaction. The older man gave a
sudden start.

“Lawford was to go around after——”

“Too late,” the actor returned quickly. “I have the best locations
cinched. They’re paid for, and an agreement signed. If any of them try
to take out my lithographs, or cover them up with yours, I’ll sue for
breach of contract.”

If looks could kill, Demarest would have been slain on the spot by the
ferocious glare from the older man’s eyes. Bryton knew that he had
suffered a serious check, for the window advertising had always been
considered of equal or greater importance than the billboards.

He realized, however, that he could accomplish nothing by going off his
head, so he made a great effort, and managed to get control of his
temper.

“After all, I don’t know why I’m going to all this trouble,” he said
sarcastically. “You’re a fool if you think anybody will go to the
Concert Hall. Why, the place is rotten!”

“That’s my business,” Demarest retorted. “I rather think if you drop in
to the opening Thursday night you’ll be surprised. But I really must
tear myself away. This has been a great pleasure, and I trust I shall
see you again.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, and started toward
the door. The next minute he stopped and looked back.

“Can’t I give you a couple of seats for Thursday?” he smiled. “I should
be delighted to have your critical opinion of the performance.”

“Bah!” snarled Bryton, his face purpling dangerously.

The young actor shrugged his shoulders.

“Too bad you’re feeling that way this morning,” he said airily. “You
really ought to take something—a bromo seltzer might do.”

Bryton gazed loweringly after the graceful figure of the young man as he
disappeared through the door.

“I’ll get you yet, my young cockerel!” he muttered fiercely. “You think
you’ve got the best of Ralph Bryton, but you’re mistaken. You won’t crow
so loud before I’m through with you.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XX

                       THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.


Happily his work was so arranged that morning that Dick Merriwell was
through for the day at eleven o’clock. Truth to tell, he might just as
well have absented himself altogether for all the good the lectures did
him, for his mind was so full of the brave struggle his new friend was
making for success that he gave little thought to anything else.

Chancing upon G. Grossman, editor in chief of the _Comet_, he took the
opportunity of giving him a full account of Demarest, his play, and the
trouble he was having to get a hearing. Grossman was much interested,
and promised to write the matter up for the paper, which was exactly
what Dick wanted.

The moment he escaped from the Chemical Lab, he made his way as quickly
as he could to the Concert Hall, which he found a scene of the utmost
bustle and confusion.

An army of scrubwomen were busy in the auditorium and balcony; painters
were at work on the boxes, and in various other parts of the house,
while from the flies came the sound of sawing and hammering.

Demarest seemed to be everywhere at once, directing, advising, joking
with the workmen, and generally hustling things along. His eyes
brightened as he saw Dick.

“The top of the morning to you, Richard!” he cried from the stage.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Come up and hear the news.”

Vaulting over the orchestra space, the Yale man leaped lightly to the
stage, and joined his friend.

Demarest narrated with gusto his success in placing the lithographs, and
then went on to tell about the interview with Bryton.

“It was a bitter pill for him to swallow,” he concluded. “He looked as
if he could have knifed me with all the pleasure in the world. He’s
always hated me like poison, you know, ever since I came to Buffer and
Lane.”

“What’s he got against you?” Merriwell asked curiously.

“Search me,” Demarest returned. “The only reason I can think of is that
I played opposite to Marion Gray all last season. He’s stuck on her, you
know, and I suppose he got jealous seeing me make love to her every
night, and twice on Saturday. They said he nearly went off his head when
she refused to sign with them this season, but came to me instead.
Marion’s a jolly good sort, and one of the best leading women in the
country. I was mighty lucky to get her. She’ll be here with all the rest
of the company this afternoon.”

Dick was about to inquire further about Bryton, when the drays appeared
at the stage entrance with the scenery, which had, up to this time, been
left in the cars on a siding.

“I couldn’t rest till I got them safely here,” the actor explained, as
he hurried over to direct the unloading. “It would be just like Bryton
to hire somebody to slash them up, and ruin them. He’d do anything to
prevent this performance, but I think we have him in a hole. I’ve got
the stuff here before he’s had time to think.”

The arrival of the sets added considerably to the general confusion, but
nothing could daunt Demarest. In spite of the fact that he had had
practically no sleep the night before, he was in the highest of spirits
over his success, for which he gave Merriwell every credit, and all
afternoon he did not stir from the theatre, with the result that a
tremendous amount of work was done before the workmen left the place.
The young actor was confident that another two days would see a
remarkable transformation in the dingy edifice.

On account of football practice, Dick could not be with him after three
o’clock, but he stopped at the theatre on his way back from the field,
and found Demarest on the point of leaving.

“Jump in, and I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said, without leaving
his seat at the wheel of his car. “How have things gone?”

“Splendidly!” Demarest exclaimed enthusiastically, as he stepped into
the tonneau. “Another two days will see everything in first-class shape.
The men have caught on to what I want, and are going at it with a will,
for they understand the need for haste. I shan’t have to spend so much
of my time looking after them to-morrow.”

“Company come yet?” Dick inquired.

“Yes; they arrived at four-fifty,” the actor returned. “Haven’t seen
them yet, but they phoned me from the hotel. Yes, thanks to you, I think
we’re going to pull through in fine shape.”

The car drew up before the New Haven House, and the actor leaped out.

“Come in, won’t you?” he urged. “I’d like to have you meet the people.
They’re a nice lot.”

“Guess I’d better wait until to-morrow,” Merriwell said. “We’ve got a
football meeting on hand right after supper, and I’ll have to hustle to
get through in time. I wish you’d let me have that manuscript of the
play you spoke about, though. I want to read it to-night, if I can
manage to stay awake.”

“Of course!” Demarest exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about it. Just wait
a second while I get it.”

He disappeared into the hotel, returning five minutes later with a
square, flat parcel, which he handed to Dick.

“There. Don’t hesitate to blue pencil it wherever you find any faults,”
he said. “We’ll have the dress rehearsal Thursday morning, and can
introduce any changes then. We’ve rehearsed so much that the people are
all letter-perfect, and there isn’t any need for holding one until
Thursday to give them an idea of this stage. Well, good night. If you
feel as weary as I do, you’ll sleep like the dead. See you to-morrow.”

Merriwell and Buckhart returned his greeting, and he stood for a moment
on the sidewalk, while the car slid on down the street. Dick had a last,
swift glimpse of his handsome, happy face, with the sensitive lips
curved in a smile of perfect friendliness, and then the car rounded a
corner, and the picture vanished.

If the Yale man could have had any conception of the extraordinary
events which were to take place before he set eyes on Austin Demarest
again, he would have been amazed beyond measure.

Luckily, however, he was troubled with no premonitions of evil. He ate
his usual hearty supper with his customary appetite, took part in the
football meeting afterward, and helped decide several important points
relative to the great Yale-Harvard game, which was coming off the
following week. Then he went promptly back to his rooms, and, getting
out the manuscript of “Jarvis of Yale,” settled himself by the table,
and commenced to read.

Here Buckhart found him an hour later, oblivious to everything but the
typewritten sheets before him. His lips were parted, his eyes bright,
and a faint flush of excitement was on his cheeks.

The Texan paused in astonishment.

“By the great horn spoon!” he ejaculated. “What in thunder is the matter
with you, pard?”

“Don’t bother me!” muttered Dick, without raising his eyes. “I’m almost
through.”

“Humph!” grunted Buckhart, dropping into a chair.

Ten minutes later his roommate looked up, with a sigh.

“That’s a dandy play!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “A perfect
corker! If that don’t go with the people hereabouts, it’ll be because
they’re a lot of dead ones. The part of _Lance Jarvis_ is a peach, but I
don’t see where I come in.”

“Huh?” questioned the Westerner.

“Oh, nothing,” Dick said hastily.

He did not want even Brad to know that Demarest had taken him as a model
for the hero of the play. Excepting in a few minor points, he could see
no resemblance whatever to himself. The clever young actor had made
_Jarvis_ a wonderfully attractive character, fascinating, wholly
sympathetic, and lovable. It was what actors term a “fat part,” and,
strangely enough, Demarest had succeeded in hitting Merriwell off to a
T, in spite of the fact that he had never actually met the Yale man. But
Dick, keen as he was in sizing up the character of another man, would
never see the resemblance in a hundred years. He was too modest. It
seemed to him the height of conceit to imagine for a moment that he was
anything like this fellow in the play, who had interested and fascinated
him. Consequently he evaded Brad’s question.

“So you think it will go, do you?” the Texan inquired presently.

“I certainly do,” Merriwell answered. “You want to get all the fellows
you can to see it. We must fill the house full for Demarest.”

Buckhart looked a little doubtful.

“It’s got to be pretty darned good, you know, pard,” he said slowly,
“for the boys to keep from guying. You know how many performances have
been broken up that way.”

Dick stood up, and laid the manuscript on the table.

“I know,” he agreed; “but you do your best to fill the theatre, and I’ll
guarantee they won’t waste much time guying. They’ll be too much
interested in the play.”

He yawned. Now that the tension was over, he felt desperately sleepy.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced. “I’d have to prop my eyelids up to
keep them open five minutes longer.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXI

                        MARION GRAY PLAYS FAIR.


Marion Gray was a very charming young woman. Slight, and rather tiny,
she had a piquant face which was fascinating. Taken separately, scarcely
one of her features would be found quite perfect, but one never
scrutinized Marion Gray’s face that way. The ensemble disarmed
criticism.

Some one had once said that had she been positively ugly she would still
have remained none the less attractive; for she had that wonderful,
illusive quality of magnetism, without which there is no real success on
the stage.

And, more than that, she had brains, and knew how to use them. In the
comparative short space of three years she had made a place for herself,
alone and unaided, in the hearts of the theatre-going public of New
York, which is about as difficult as a passage through the eye of a
needle by the proverbial camel.

In three years she had acquired a personal following, and a large one,
at that. When Buffer and Lane had threatened her with their displeasure
if she persisted in going with Austin Demarest, she had laughed at them.
She knew, and so did they, that such threats amounted to nothing. The
moment she was at leisure—and probably long before—they would be after
her on bended knee, begging, beseeching, offering a fabulous salary, to
secure the actress for which New York was clamoring.

But she had reasons of her own for wishing to play for the talented
young actor-manager. Perhaps the reasons were no longer her own. During
the long rehearsals of “Jarvis of Yale,” it had been almost impossible
to hide from the penetrating eyes of the other members in the cast the
interest she felt in the person of the author and star. They had long
ago sized up the situation, and confided to each other that Marion was
daffier than ever about “Demmy.” They had all seen it but the one she
cared more for than any one else in the world.

This morning, as she sat alone at breakfast in the dining room of the
New Haven House, she sighed a little as she thought of it. He was very
blind. They had always been good pals. Once she thought that his feeling
for her was something more than that, but now she was not sure.

They had been separated all summer. He was writing his play, and she
resting in the mountains. Since their return to the city he had been so
full of his wonderful new venture that he seemed scarcely to have time
to eat and sleep.

All at once she glanced toward the door, and her eyes brightened. He had
entered the room, and was striding toward her table. In one hand he held
an open telegram. His face was full of perplexity and annoyance.

“I can’t understand it!” he exclaimed, dropping down opposite her.
“Hemingway wants me to come to town at once. Has something important to
talk over. I don’t dare put him off, for all our chances of getting a
New York date depend on him, and yet it’s deucedly inconvenient with so
much here to look after.”

Marion Gray hesitated an instant.

“How very provoking,” she agreed presently. “But, of course, you must
go. It would never do to offend Hemingway, and you know how erratic he
is sometimes. Is there anything here to do except keep an eye on the
theatre?”

“Not much,” Demarest returned. “They have a good start there, and know
what to do next, but I had expected to run over two or three times to be
sure they were getting things straight.”

“Why don’t you ask that nice Mr. Merriwell you were telling me about to
look after things for you?” she suggested.

Demarest’s face brightened.

“That’s a good idea,” he returned quickly, “only it seems cheeky.
However, I know he’ll do it if he can, and it’s the only way out. I’ll
phone him.”

He pushed back his chair, and stood up.

“Well, I’ll be off. Just about time to make the train. Don’t worry if
I’m not back to-night. There might be something to detain me, but I’ll
make the first train out in the morning at the latest. Dress rehearsal
at eleven, you know. Look after that for me, will you? And be sure
everybody understands. By-by.”

She nodded gayly to him, but her face sobered as she went on with her
breakfast. The success of this venture meant almost as much to her as it
did to Demarest, and she was wrapped up in it.

Presently she finished, and arose from the table. She meant to go for a
little stroll, and for that reason she wore her hat, and carried a long
fur coat on her arm. One of the bell boys held this while she slipped
into it, and then she turned toward the door, drawing on her gloves as
she made her way slowly toward it.

All at once she gave a quick little gasp, as her eyes fell upon a man
standing by the desk, and turned her head swiftly the other way. But she
was too late. The next instant Ralph Bryton had spied her, and stepped
to her side.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, with an attempt at geniality. “I saw
by the register that you had arrived last night.”

The girl did not glance at him, but went steadily on her way.

“Good morning, Mr. Bryton,” she returned frigidly.

There was a disagreeable note in the man’s laugh.

“How very formal we are,” he said sarcastically. “I can remember the
time, not so very long ago, when it was Ralph.”

“You know perfectly well that was on your father’s account,” she
retorted. “Brought up as I was in his house, I could scarcely have
called you anything else while he was alive. Now I can follow my own
inclinations.”

The man’s face darkened. They had reached the door, and, as she was
about to pass out, he put out one hand swiftly, and held the knob.

“One moment,” he said shortly. “I must have a few minutes’ talk with you
before you go out. Oh, it’s about business,” he went on bitterly, as a
repugnance flashed across her face. “I want to talk to you about
Demarest and this fool play of his.”

She glanced at him.

“What is it you wish to say?” she inquired briefly.

Bryton indicated with his hand a couple of chairs in a corner near by,
and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took one of them.

“You’ve got to pull out of this company of his at once,” he said, in a
hard voice, as he dropped down beside her.

Marion Gray’s eyes widened, and a little color crept into her face.

“You’re a cool proposition,” she remarked, “to tell me what I must, or
must not, do. Do you imagine for an instant that I would break a
contract, and desert a man the very day before the opening? I thought
you knew that I always played fair.”

“Yah!” snarled Bryton. “You—play fair! A lot you do! Where’s your
gratitude? Tell me that! You owe everything you’ve got—the very clothes
on your back—to my father. Didn’t he take you in when you were starving,
and treat you like a daughter? Didn’t he give you his name, which wasn’t
good enough for you when you took to the stage? Didn’t he leave you a
pile of money, which kept you till you got a job with Rosenbaum? That
was my money! It should have come to me! You practically robbed me of
it. And now you stick by Demarest, who doesn’t care a hang about you,
and let me go——”

“Stop!”

The girl’s face was pale, but her eyes flashed angrily.

“You’ve said quite enough, Ralph Bryton,” she went on, in a cold,
cutting voice, “to show me what sort of a man you really are, even if I
hadn’t a pretty good notion of it before. A good deal of what you have
said is true, but no one but a contemptible hound would have said it in
the way you did. Your father did adopt me, and as long as he lived I
loved him. He was more of a man than you’ll ever be. The money he left
me wasn’t much, but it enabled me to live until I found something to do.
The reason I didn’t take your father’s name was because it was yours,
too.”

Bryton winced at the contempt in her voice. She caught her breath, and
went on swiftly:

“Now, not content with pestering me to marry you, when you know I loathe
the very sight of you, you want me to do a dishonorable thing which
would make me hate myself all my life long. But I won’t do it! You knew
that long ago, didn’t you? I’d play my part to-morrow night if I was
dying, and I mean to play it for all that is in me. If ‘Jarvis of Yale’
isn’t a success, it won’t be because Marion Gray hasn’t done her best to
make it so.”

With the last word, she sprang swiftly to her feet, and, before the
angry man realized what had happened, she reached the door and
disappeared.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXII

                          OUT OF A CLEAR SKY.


Dick Merriwell was rather surprised to get a note from Demarest—the
latter had not been able to reach him on the telephone—saying that he
had been unexpectedly called to New York for the day, and asking Dick if
he would not keep an eye on the workmen at the theatre that afternoon,
if possible.

This Merriwell was, of course, very ready to do. He made three trips
down there before going to the field, and found matters progressing as
well as could be expected.

He was amused, and, for an instant, surprised, at being mistaken for
Demarest, but he did not disabuse the men of their error. It would be
just as well for them to think that he was the actor. They would perhaps
work the better while he was looking on. Knowing the work which had to
be done, he was able to straighten out several doubtful matters, and
when he stopped again on his way home from practice, he was more than
pleased at the strides they had made during his absence. The place was
neat as a pin, and only a few more hours’ work was necessary to finish
everything up.

He rather expected that Demarest would call him up that evening, but no
message came. Finally, about half-past eight, he got the hotel on the
wire, and found that the actor had not returned.

“He’ll probably get the early train in the morning,” he said to himself.
“I’ll hear from him then.”

Having no lecture until ten o’clock, he spent the time getting up back
work. He was just slipping into his coat to leave the room when the
telephone bell rang insistently, and, stepping over to the instrument,
he took down the receiver.

“Is this Mr. Merriwell?” came in a woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Miss Gray—Miss Marion Gray. I’m dreadfully worried about Mr.
Demarest. Two trains are in, and he hasn’t appeared. The rehearsal is
set for eleven, and I don’t know what to do. I phoned Hemingway’s
office, and they said he hadn’t been there since last night, late. Could
you—would you come over to the hotel for a few minutes? You see, there’s
no one I can get to advise me what to do, and I knew you were Mr.
Demarest’s friend, so I thought——”

The sweet voice trailed off in a questioning silence.

“Certainly, I’ll come, Miss Gray,” Merriwell answered promptly. “Be over
in three minutes.”

Hanging up the receiver, he took up his hat and left the rooms.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmured, as he ran downstairs. “He should
have been here two hours ago. Great Scott. I hope nothing’s happened to
him. If he didn’t show up in time for the performance, everything would
be ruined. But he must show up—he will!”

Flinging open the outer door, he almost fell over a telegraph boy. His
heart gave a sudden throb of fear.

“Merriwell live here?” inquired the boy.

“Yes,” Dick said quickly. “That’s my name. Give it to me.”

He snatched the ominous yellow missive from the other’s hand, and tore
it open in breathless haste. The boy saw his face pale suddenly, and
heard him draw his breath swiftly as his eyes flew rapidly over the
crowded lines on the single sheet. But experience had calloused him to
such sights as these, and, eager to be gone, he drawled out:

“Any answer?”

“No,” Dick said, in a strange voice; “none.”

The boy departed, whistling carelessly, but Merriwell still stood on the
stone steps, gazing blankly at the paper in his hand. Presently he drew
one hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner.

“I can’t!” he breathed. “I could never do it in this world! What is he
thinking of?”

He turned mechanically and went back to his room.

Dropping down in a chair, he spread the telegram out on his knee, and
read it aloud.

    “Arrested here on absurd charge. Cannot be tried until
    to-morrow. Put-up job to hold me, and ruin performance. You must
    take my part, and save play. Otherwise I shall be ruined.
    _Jarvis_ is really you. If you can only learn the lines it will
    be all right. Business will take care of itself. Do this as you
    love me, Richard, and I shall be your debtor forever. Don’t tell
    a soul where I am. I can’t afford to have my name smirched, even
    by false charge.

                                                            AUSTIN.”

For a moment or two Dick sat looking at the paper blankly. Then he
suddenly crumpled it into a ball, and thrust it into his pocket. At
least, that was what he meant to do, but, instead of going into the
pocket, it slipped through the slit in his overcoat, and lodged in the
chair seat, close against one of the arms.

The next moment Merriwell had sprung to his feet, and was striding back
and forth across the room.

The prospect which had at first appalled him was gradually becoming more
reasonable, more possible, as he recovered from the suddenness of the
shock, and swiftly regained his poise and self-control. He had a
remarkably retentive memory, and felt that if he put his mind to it,
excluding every other thing, he might be able to get the part before
night, or possibly even in time for a hasty dress rehearsal that
afternoon.

As for doing anything more than that, he would have to trust to luck. He
had no idea what Demarest’s conception was of the character of _Lance
Jarvis_. All he could do would be to forget that he was acting, and
simply be himself. It was the only way by which the young actor’s
reputation could be saved, and his success assured; for, if the
performance did not come off on Thursday, Dick had a feeling that Ralph
Bryton would see that it was indefinitely postponed. He had seen enough
of the man’s methods not to realize that no stone would be left unturned
to thwart Demarest.

Presently he yanked off his overcoat, and tossed it on a chair.

“I’ll do it!” he muttered. “I’ve got to do it! There’s no other way
out!”

Then, springing to the telephone, he called up the New Haven House, and
asked for Miss Gray. In a moment he heard her voice at the other end of
the wire.

“This is Mr. Merriwell, Miss Gray,” he said quickly. “I’ve heard from
Austin. He’s unavoidably detained, and cannot get here before two
o’clock. Can the dress rehearsal be postponed until then, do you think?”

She gave a gasp of relief, which was almost a sob.

“Yes, of course,” she said swiftly. “That will give us time enough to
get through before the evening performance. Oh, I’m so glad everything
is right with him! I was so afraid something had happened. You know,
Bryton would stop at nothing to prevent this opening.”

“Yes, I understood that from Austin,” Merriwell returned quietly. “But I
don’t see what he can do now. You’ll have every one at the theatre at
two, will you?”

“Surely. Thank you so much, Mr. Merriwell, and do forgive me for putting
you to so much trouble.”

“It hasn’t been any trouble at all,” Dick assured her. “I was terribly
worried about Austin myself, but everything will be all right now. If
you don’t mind, I won’t come over just now. I have some rather important
work to do, but I’ll meet you later, I hope.”

“Of course. You must come behind the scenes to-night, and meet the
company. Thank you again. Good-by.”

As he hung up the receiver, a whimsical smile flashed into Merriwell’s
face.

“Yes, I certainly expect to come behind the scenes, and meet the
company,” he murmured. “I’m glad she didn’t ask any more questions. As
it was, I escaped without telling an actual untruth. I suppose Demarest
is wise in not wanting any one to know. It would probably break them all
up; but I wonder if I can possibly keep up the deception. Gee! It makes
me cold all over to think about it! Just have to trust to luck, I
reckon. Now for it.”

Snatching up the manuscript of the play, he dragged a chair close to the
window, and started to work.

In something over an hour, he got up, and, dropping the play, began to
walk the floor, reeling off the part at lightning speed. When he came to
the end of the first act, he gave a sigh of relief.

“One gone,” he muttered. “Pretty superficial, but it will have to do. I
must see that the prompter is on the job to-night.”

When he next came to himself another act had been memorized, and it was
half-past twelve. He had expected Brad to come in and interrupt, but
happily the Texan did not appear. He must have gone directly to the
dining hall from his last recitation.

By a quarter of two the last words had been committed, and Dick snatched
overcoat and hat, stuffed the manuscript into his pocket, and flew
downstairs.

Not ten minutes later the door was flung open, and Brad Buckhart entered
hastily.

“Not here!” he exclaimed, with a swift look about the room. “Where in
thunder is he? Cut everything this morning, without a word of
explanation! Didn’t even show up to dinner! It sure beats everything,
the bad ways he’s getting into!”

He plumped down in the chair beside the table, his brows drawn down into
a scowl. A moment later he slid his hand down the arm of the chair, and
drew forth a crumpled wad of yellow paper.

“Humph!” he grunted. “What’s this?”

Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a telegram, and, scarcely realizing
what he was doing, his eyes took in the first line. After that nothing
could have prevented his reading it to the very end, so interested was
he.

“Suffering catamounts!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all! Arrested!
Wants Dick to take the part! Great tarantulas! That’s what the old
galoot’s been up to all morning—learning the stuff. It’s sure it!”

For a moment he sat there in thoughtful silence. Then a slow smile broke
out all over his face, and the next moment he threw back his head, and
laughed till the tears came into his eyes.

“By the great horn spoon!” he cried. “That’s the best thing I ever
heard. Think of old Dick going on the stage, and half of Yale College
looking on, and not knowing it’s him. Gee! If we don’t have a circus
to-night with Richard I’ll eat my hat!”

He broke off, and glanced again at the telegram.

“I can’t tell ’em, though, can I?” he muttered. “Dick never meant I
should see this. But you bet the Untamed Maverick of the Pecos will have
his share of joy out of it. You hear me talk!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                           THE CURTAIN RISES.


Dick slipped cautiously into the stage entrance of the Concert Hall, and
went directly to Demarest’s dressing room. No one must see him until he
was made up, or the fat would be all in the fire.

Swiftly lighting the gas jets, he locked the door, and opened the
make-up box, which stood on a bare table underneath a large mirror. It
was not the first time he had disguised himself so that his best friend
did not know him, but he found that the very strength of the likeness
between Demarest and himself was more a hindrance than a help.

His keen sense of observation, however, had taken in the several
important differences in their faces, and he proceeded to skillfully
make his own an exact duplicate of the actor’s. It was delicate work,
but he did it well; and, ten minutes later, after he had rearranged his
hair in the manner Demarest wore it, it would have taken an amazingly
keen eye to see that he was not the actor himself. He had scarcely put
down the brushes, when there came a light, quick knock at the door.

Inwardly a little nervous, but to all appearances perfectly at ease, he
stepped across the room, turned the key, and flung the door open. Marion
Gray was standing on the threshold, her face worried and anxious, but,
as she saw him, her eyes brightened, and she gave a gasp of relief.

“Oh, Austin, I’m so glad!” she cried. “What a fright you have given us!
I’ve been worried nearly to death for fear you wouldn’t get here in
time. What in the world kept you?”

“I’m sorry, Marion,” Dick returned, “but it really couldn’t be helped.
There isn’t a question now about Hemingway giving us a show if we make
good here.”

Putting all his powers of mimicry into play, Merriwell reproduced the
tones of Austin Demarest’s voice with an accuracy which surprised even
himself. The girl evidently had no suspicion of the substitution, for
she went on quickly:

“Austin, I’m afraid of Bryton. I’m afraid he’ll try to prevent the
performance in some way. I saw him in the street outside just now, and
yesterday he did his best to persuade me to throw up my part.”

“What a scoundrel he is!” Dick exclaimed. “But, of course, I have no
fear of his succeeding. You’d never throw me down that way.”

Marion Gray caught her breath suddenly. Her eyes were full of tears, and
she was evidently in a very nervous condition.

“I’m glad you realize that much,” she faltered. “I couldn’t do such a
thing as that, though sometimes it’s dreadfully hard——”

She broke off abruptly, and Merriwell looked at her questioningly.

“Hard?” he repeated.

Her face was turned away from him.

“Yes—hard to have you—make love—to me—on the stage,” she whispered
chokingly.

Dick drew a quick breath. Great heavens! The girl was madly in love with
Demarest, and she was as much as telling him so. There was no mistaking
the tones of her voice. He had not thought of this complication, and for
a moment he did not know what to do or say. He had no idea what the
actor’s general attitude was toward this extremely attractive young
woman, and, even if he had, he could never bring himself to behave in a
sentimental manner toward the girl who was mistaking him for another
man.

“There, my dear,” he ventured presently, in Demarest’s whimsical tones,
“you’re worried sick over this fellow Bryton. There’s nothing to be
afraid of. He can’t stop the performance now. Come, it’s time we started
the ball moving. The stage must be waiting for us.”

Drawing her arm gently through his, he led her out of the dressing room,
and a moment later they were upon the stage, which was thronged with the
members of the company, who greeted him enthusiastically, and in tones
of distinct relief. They, too, had been worried, and with good reason.
Capable actors as they were, they well knew that if Demarest’s play
failed to make a hit, many of them would be in a pretty bad way for a
job. Unlike Marion Gray, they were far from being indespensable to the
trust.

It was a trying moment for Dick. He did not even know one name from
another, though he had thoroughly memorized the cast, and as soon as the
rehearsal commenced, he would find out their various identities from the
parts they took. Consequently, he plunged at once into the business at
hand.

“Howdy, everybody,” he began cheerily. “Beastly sorry to have kept you
all on the fence this way, but it couldn’t be helped. We’ll have to make
up for lost time by hustling things along. Let’s get busy at once. Clear
the stage for the first act.”

Once the plunge was taken, things came easier. The first act went
through with a rush. Dick made few slips, and covered them so skillfully
that no one noticed them. The cast was letter-perfect in their parts,
and had rehearsed so often that they had the business at their finger
ends.

Merriwell made several changes in the latter, which were all
improvements. It was evident that Demarest knew Cambridge, and the ways
of Harvard men to perfection, but he had slipped up a number of times in
transplanting those ways to New Haven and Yale. They were little things,
but Dick knew that the boys would notice them and probably josh, so he
took it upon himself to do a little altering.

The big scene in the third act went with a dash which brought
exclamations of enthusiastic appreciation from the actors. It was a
scene which the star practically carried on his own shoulders, and they
had never seen Demarest do better.

The last act followed swiftly, and, with a sigh of thankfulness, Dick
realized that this ordeal was over.

He had decided not to go back to his rooms. In fact, he could not
separate himself from the company now without creating suspicion. There
was barely time for a hurried dinner before they would have to be back
at the theatre, so every one made a swift rush to their dressing rooms,
and in ten minutes they began to leave by the stage entrance.

Merriwell waited for Marion Gray. He felt that Demarest would have done
that, and while she was changing her gown, he stepped out to the box
office to see what the chances for a good house that evening were.

The ticket seller was enthusiastic. With the exception of a few seats in
the rear of the orchestra and balcony, the entire house was sold out.
Applications were constantly coming in over the phone, and he predicted
that in half an hour only standing room would be left.

“By Jove!” Merriwell muttered, as he went back to the stage. “I’ve got
to do it now!”

A moment later he was sitting beside Miss Gray in a cab, being borne
rapidly toward the hotel. The girl did not say much, but she seemed to
have recovered her self-control, and was rejoiced when Dick told her of
the splendid audience they would have to play to.

Entering the hotel, they went directly to the dining room. As he passed
the desk, Merriwell saw a tall, dark, rather imposing-looking man start
suddenly, and glare at the Yale man with open mouth and swiftly paling
face, as if he could not believe the evidence of his eyes. At the same
moment he heard the girl beside him draw her breath quickly, and in that
instant he felt intuitively that the man must be Ralph Bryton. No wonder
the manager was astounded to see Demarest here, if, as the latter
supposed, he was responsible for the actor’s detention in New York.

Dick raised his head, and sent a taunting, irritating smile toward the
fellow. Then he passed on into the dining room.

From that moment things went with such a rush and dash that there was no
time at all to grow nervous. The meal was hurried along at breakneck
speed. The actors were all more or less nervous, for any first night is
an ordeal, and this one particularly so.

Dick did his best to cheer them up, as he knew Demarest would have done.
He told them of the sold-out house, and kept up a continual string of
whimsical, amusing comment all the time they were at table.

Dinner over, they returned to the theatre again, and at once dressed for
the first act.

Presently the doors opened, and the house began to fill. Dick had
finished dressing, and was strolling about the stage, resolutely trying
to keep his thoughts from what was coming. Seat after seat in the
auditorium without banged down. The low murmur of conversation gradually
grew louder as the house filled. Presently he heard the sound of
tramping, followed swiftly by jest and laughter, as a crowd of college
fellows made their way to the front.

He shivered a little. They would do their best to break him up, he knew.
They always did. Then suddenly a wave of obstinate determination swept
over him. He would not let them guy him. He would spite them all, and
play the part so well that they would have no time for that.

Presently the musicians began to tune up, and a little later the first
bars of a popular air crashed out. Demarest had had the forethought to
secure an especially fine orchestra, and he was wise. The boys would
have hooted into silence anything less good. As it was, they contented
themselves with keeping time with their feet, and when the chorus of the
song began, they joined in, singing the words.

The thunderous burst of voices was awe-inspiring—almost terrifying.
Those of the company upon the stage shivered, and several turned pale
under their rouge as they realized what they would have to face.

Dick noticed it, and turned swiftly toward them.

“You mustn’t mind them,” he said reassuringly. “They may josh a little
at first, but don’t pay any attention to them. Play your parts for all
that is in you, and they’ll stop pretty quick. We can’t fail, you know,
with such a play as ‘Jarvis of Yale.’”

A moment later he realized that this must sound decidedly conceited, but
apparently the others did not notice the break. They were too much
intent on their own feelings to think of anything else, but Merriwell’s
cheery words put heart into them, and braced them up.

The music stopped with a crashing bar, and was followed by loud
applause.

“Clear the stage!” Dick said swiftly. “All ready for the first act?”

The first set was on the campus, with Farnum Hall on the drop, and
Battle Chapel looming to the left. A crowd of fellows were sitting on
the steps of the hall, singing in the moonlight. The men took their
places, while the other actors scurried into the wings. Dick was with
them. He did not appear until after the curtain was up. He raised his
hand in a signal, and instantly the trained voices of the quartette
broke the stillness. Softly, at first, they crooned the words of the
familiar college air. Gradually it grew louder and louder, until the
volume filled the wings. Dick felt his heart beating unevenly.

There was another signal, and the curtain slowly lifted, and revealed
the stage.

A prolonged burst of genuine applause greeted the beautiful set, which
had been painted by one of the best artists in New York. The fellows had
found nothing so far to guy. They were fair enough according to their
lights. They never jeered a performance simply for the sake of breaking
up the play. It was only their method of showing displeasure for
inferior acting.

The quartette finished the last verse of the song, and, taking a quick
breath, Dick walked quietly onto the stage.

He spoke the first few words of his lines uninterrupted. Then there came
a prolonged burst of hand-clapping, which seemed to continue
indefinitely. Either this was simply a mode of expressing their approval
of the actor who had produced the play under such disadvantages, or else
the fellows were trying to break him up.

But they did not succeed. Dick waited until the applause had died away,
and then continued his lines as if there had been no interruption.

After a first swift glance at the audience, which seemed to him like
nothing else but a sea of faces rising, tier upon tier, to the very
roof, the Yale man had not felt a particle of nervousness. And with his
first lines he plunged himself into the part he was taking, and from
that moment there was not the least sign of hesitancy in his manner.

In truth, he was not acting at all. He was simply himself, and the
college fellows in the audience became instantly plunged into a
controversy as to whether it was Dick Merriwell or some one else, which
lasted off and on to the end of the play.

Once the plunge was taken, the first act went smoothly, gathering
interest as the plot developed. At first Dick’s lines were punctuated by
bursts of applause, which usually started from a certain quarter of the
orchestra where Buckhart was seated, but, as the play progressed, these
became less frequent, until at length the Texan sat gaping at the stage,
growing more and more certain that there had been some mistake, and this
was not his chum at all.

The first act finished with a brisk round of clapping, which did not
cease until the curtain had risen upon the stage several times, and was
only stilled by Dick’s leading Marion Gray before the footlights.
Evidently the boys were very well pleased. That was plain from the buzz
of talk and favorable comment which arose after the curtain finally
dropped.

“You were splendid, Austin!” Marion Gray exclaimed, as they hurried off
the stage. “I never saw you do better. Oh, I’m so glad! It can’t help
but go now.”

“They seemed to like it, all right, didn’t they?” Merriwell smiled. “We
must keep up the good work.”

“Wait till they see the third act,” she smiled, as she slipped into the
dressing room. “That’ll fetch them.”

The next act went with rush and vim. Demarest had written better than he
knew. There was not an unnecessary word. The plot unfolded swiftly and
naturally, with an ever-increasing interest. The business was splendid,
thanks to Merriwell’s blue-penciling of the afternoon, and more than one
burst of applause greeted some particularly apt sally. The scene ended
with a dramatic encounter between the heroine, played with grace and
spirit, by Marion Gray, and the villain, in which the girl heard the
latter plotting to have _Jarvis_ thrown off the team by means of false
statements that he had betrayed signals to Harvard, and vowed that she
would save _Jarvis_, whom she loved, by going to the captain of the
eleven with what she had just learned.

The curtain fell to a prolonged burst of applause, and again Dick had to
go before it with Miss Gray. Then he hustled back to get into his
football rig for the great scene.

This took place in the track house on the field. Through a great window
at the back could be seen one end of a tier of seats crowded with
spectators, in which the real actors blended into the figures painted on
the drop so perfectly that the effect was one of a vast, shouting,
flag-waving mob of people.

As the curtain rose, the entire football team was on the stage,
receiving final instructions from the coaches before the game. _Hicks_,
the villain, accused _Jarvis_ of selling their signals to Harvard. The
latter indignantly denied it, and was only restrained from pitching into
his enemy by the efforts of the other men.

_Hicks_ produced his forged proofs, and _Jarvis_ was thrown off the
team. The team rushed off to the field, and _Jarvis_, left alone, threw
himself into a chair, and dropped his head on his arms, outstretched
across a table, in an agony of heartbroken despair.

It was a thrilling moment. The whole vast audience was so still that one
could almost have heard a pin drop. Then a shrill whistle from the field
outside the window split the silence, and the mimic crowd on the grand
stand burst forth into a roar. Still _Jarvis_ did not raise his head.

Then came the sounds of the game. The thudding of many feet upon a mimic
turf, the shrill cries and shouts of the excited spectators, the waving
of many flags.

Slowly _Jarvis_ lifted his head, and looked toward the window. The game
was going on, and he was out of it. He would not look! He did not want
to, but, little by little, against his will, he crept to the window. The
game was in full swing; his blood was thrilled as his eyes were riveted
on the field; unconsciously he followed the progress of the struggle
aloud.

Dick Merriwell’s work in this scene was masterly in its simplicity. He
had forgotten that he was playing a part—had almost forgotten that he
was on the stage. For the time he really was _Lance Jarvis_, and his
expression of the heartbreaking agony of the man ruled off his team at
the crucial moment, watching the progress of the game with straining
eyes and sweating brow, seeing the weakness of his team, and yet not
able to help, was something which could never be forgotten.

The crowded house was thrilled into silence. Men sat on the edges of
their seats, with eyes riveted on that single figure at the window,
scarcely daring to breathe, for fear they would break the spell.

Presently the game began to go against the Yale team. Slowly the line
was forced down the field. The vivid words of the unconscious actor
painted the scene for the excited audience as clearly as if they had
been looking on the game itself.

“They’re gaining!” he cried desperately. “They’re going through the line
with every rush! _Lawrence_ is groggy! They’re hammering him! Another
ten yards and they’ll make a touchdown!”

As if unable to longer watch the failure of his team, Merriwell turned
from the window, and put one hand over his eyes.

This was the cue for the newsboy to rush in with word that the heroine
had been intercepted by the villain’s friends while on her way to save
_Jarvis_, but to Dick’s surprise the boy did not appear. He waited a
moment, and then, turning back for an instant to the window, improvised
a line or two.

Suddenly the door burst open, and the belated boy appeared. His face was
white, his eyes shining with excitement, a smear of blood trickled from
a cut on his face.

Leaping across the stage, he caught Dick’s arm.

“They’ve got her!” he shrilled. “They’re trying to get Miss Gray into a
cab. Hurry! Hurry, or you’ll be too late!”

These were not the proper words at all, but they seemed very appropriate
to the audience, who burst into applause. Dick, knowing full well that
something was wrong, rushed from the stage, with the boy at his heels.

Outside he stopped, and faced the actor.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What are you talking about? What’s the
matter?”

“They’ve got Miss Gray!” gasped the boy. “Down at the stage door.
They’re carrying her off. One of ’em hit me a crack——”

He found himself talking to empty air. Merriwell rushed through the
wings, flung himself down the short flight of stairs, and burst out into
the street.

The boy was right. A cab was drawn up close to the curb, into which two
men were trying to force Marion Gray. The girl was struggling
desperately, and trying to drag away the hand of one of them, which was
pressed close against her mouth to prevent her crying out.

Like a panther, Merriwell sprang at them. With a grip of iron he seized
the collar of one, and tore him away from the girl, planting a smashing
blow on his face as he did so. The next minute the other was stretched
on the ground, and Marion was free.

The Yale man would like to have stayed to complete the job, but he knew
that there was not a moment to lose. They must get back to the stage.
Half lifting, half supporting the girl, who was sobbing hysterically, he
carried her through the stage door, back to the wings.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You must brace up, Marion. You’ve got to
think of the play. We’ll have to go on in a minute.”

She caught her breath, and brought all her will to bear to calm herself.

“You’re right,” she faltered. “I mustn’t fail. That’s what he wanted to
carry me off for—to spoil the play.”

“It was Bryton, I suppose?” Dick questioned.

“Yes.”

She put her hand up, and mechanically smoothed her hair. As she did so,
Dick heard their cue to enter.

“There’s the cue,” he said quickly. “Can you go on?”

“Yes, I’m all right now.”

They hurried to the entrance, and stepped onto the stage. Luckily the
situation in the play was enough to account for any signs of emotion
which Marion Gray displayed, but she was very soon herself again.

The first half of the game was over. The men came into the track house,
worn and exhausted by their struggles, discouraged by their failure—for
Harvard had scored. Marion Gray told her story, swiftly, dramatically.
The villain was unmasked, and _Jarvis_ restored to the team to play out
the second half.

The curtain dropped to the sound of thunderous applause. The audience
fairly broke loose. Yells and catcalls made bedlam of the place. Time
and time again Merriwell came before the curtain with Miss Gray. At
length he was forced to appear alone, and shouts of “Speech! Speech!”
rent the air.

This nearly broke him up, but he managed to say a few words of thanks
before he backed out of sight.

The last act was a short one, which simply rounded things out, and tied
up loose ends. The game was over. _Jarvis_ had won a victory for Yale by
a phenomenal play, and appeared on the stage, borne on the shoulders of
his enthusiastic comrades. The play ended with a pretty bit of
love-making between the heroine and _Lance Jarvis_, which Marion Gray
played with all the fascination and art she possessed. It fairly brought
down the house, and Dick found himself wondering how Austin Demarest
could go through that every night of the week without falling head over
heels in love with the attractive actress.

When the curtain dropped it was past eleven o’clock, but no one made a
move to leave the theatre. They simply sat in their seats, thundering on
the floor with their feet, clapping their hands sore, and raising such a
din that the actors on the stage could not hear a spoken word.

The curtin rolled up again and again, revealing the long semicircle of
smiling faces, happy in the knowledge that they had helped score a
phenomenal success. Already they saw themselves booked for a long run at
a Broadway playhouse.

Up and down the curtain went, almost continuously, and still the
crashing bursts of sound reverberated from orchestra to gallery, and
back again.

Presently there was a momentary pause, and then came the deep,
thunderous, blood-stirring roar of marshaled cheering, from a thousand
throats:

“Demarest! Demarest! Demarest!”

As he stood in the centre of the stage, with Marion Gray at his side,
Dick felt an odd lump in his throat, and something like a mist came
before his eyes. He had never known such a sensation before.

“Aren’t you happy?” whispered the girl.

Dick looked down into her eyes, which were bright with tears.

“Yes,” he said simply.

And he was. He had won out for his friend. He had also done a piece of
good work which Demarest would find it hard to equal, but the Yale man
did not realize that at the time. He had simply done his best, and had
succeeded.

At last, after Merriwell had appeared alone before the curtain eight or
ten times, the enthusiastic audience seemed to be content, and, leaving
their seats, began to file slowly out of the theatre. But throughout the
college buildings that night, and in a good many other parts of New
Haven, “Jarvis of Yale,” and the superb acting of Austin Demarest, were
the sole topics of conversation.

                  *       *       *       *       *

About eleven o’clock next morning Merriwell sat alone in his room,
waiting for Demarest. A wire had come two hours before, saying that he
was at liberty, and would take the next train to New Haven, so that Dick
momentarily expected to see him.

He was feeling a little of the mental strain which he had undergone, but
otherwise was in splendid shape. His one reply to the inquiries as to
where he had been last night was to tell the fellows that he had had a
chance to go behind the scenes, and had stayed there throughout the
play. One and all, his friends had commented on the amazing resemblance
between himself and the author of the play, and he had agreed with them
that it was most extraordinary.

He was a little annoyed to find out that Buckhart knew the truth, but,
after all, it mattered very little now, especially when he knew that the
Texan would never divulge the secret. Brad’s utter astonishment when he
found that Dick really had played the part of _Jarvis_ was very funny.
He pronounced the performance as the very “corkingest” thing he had ever
seen.

Suddenly Dick’s quick ear caught the sound of hurried feet on the
stairs, a moment later the door was burst open, and Demarest, his face
aglow with joyous enthusiasm, dashed into the room.

With a sweep of his arms, he caught Dick about the shoulders, and gave
him a great hug.

“Oh, you brick!” he cried. “I didn’t know there was such a bully fellow
alive! As long as I live I’ll never forget what you did for me last
night. It was splendid! But what an old bluffer you are.”

He took a step backward, and gazed at the Yale man affectionately.

Dick looked a little puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why, pretending you couldn’t act, of course.”

“But I can’t,” Dick objected. “At least, I didn’t think I could.”

“That’s good!” laughed Demarest. “Why, your performance last night is
the talk of the town. Have you seen the papers yet?”

Dick shook his head smilingly, and the actor raised his eyes to the
ceiling.

“Great Scott!” he cried, in astonishment. “Not looked at the papers!
What do you think of that!”

He dragged a large bundle of newspapers from his pocket and held them
up.

“Notices in every decent New York daily!” he cried triumphantly. “And
such notices! Listen to this!”

Swiftly unfolding one, he found the right place and read unctuously:

“‘Jarvis of Yale,’ produced last night—um—um—— The acting of Austin
Demarest in the title part was a treat which has not been our privilege
to witness in many moons. His rendering of _Lance Jarvis_ was masterly
in its simple directness, its naturalness and truth, while at the same
time his emotional range was wide and his pathos quite distinguished
from bathos. He seemed, more than almost any actor which we can at
present recall, to get under the skin of the character he was
portraying. He was the typical college man. Manly, true-hearted,
generous, full of the eternal joy of youth. One would almost have
supposed that he had stepped directly on the stage from the college
campus so near at hand. A tremendous, and widely enthusiastic audience
crowded the old theatre to the very doors. It is quite safe to predict
that ‘Jarvis of Yale’ will settle down very shortly for a long Broadway
run. Certainly it would be hard to find a more clean-cut, dramatic,
thoroughly wholesome play, without a dull moment from start to finish,
than this maiden effort of the most popular and able leading man of the
past season, who received much of his early training in the company of
the late Richard Manton.”

Demarest tossed the paper aside and turned to Dick.

“There! What do you think of that? There’s a lot more about you and the
rest of the company that I skipped. Not act, indeed!”

Merriwell’s face was serious and his eyes very bright.

“But I didn’t act at all,” he said quickly. “I just learned the lines
and left the rest to luck. All I did was to try and imagine what I would
feel like and what I’d do if I were in _Lance Jarvis’_ place.”

The young actor laughed.

“That’s what we all try to do,” he returned; “but we don’t always
succeed. It’s a shame, though, that I should get all the credit of this!
It doesn’t seem a bit fair. People ought to know that I wasn’t the
fellow who played last night. I tell you it makes me feel pretty mean to
take another man’s laurels.”

“But that’s the only reason why I did it,” Dick objected. “It was to
save you.”

“And you succeeded,” the other put in quickly. “I builded better than I
knew when I sent you that wire. Now tell me all about it. How did
everything go off? Did any one suspect? How did Marion take things?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Two months later, when “Jarvis of Yale” was at the height of its
metropolitan success, Dick Merriwell received the following note:

    “DEAR OLD BOY: Perhaps you won’t be awfully surprised when I
    tell you that Marion and I have agreed to travel henceforth
    through this weary world in double harness. She knows the secret
    of my first performance in New Haven, and when I told her that
    you took my place she was perfectly horrified. She won’t tell me
    anything, but I gather that something happened that night which
    wasn’t on the program. She did say she’d never be able to look
    you in the face again. If I didn’t know you so well, I should be
    writhing in the grip of the green-eyed monster. As it is, I’m
    only curious. Perhaps you’ll put me wise next time you see me.
    Yours ever, AUSTIN.”

But Dick never did, and was soon back deep in the athletic sports of the
college.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                       THE FELLOW WITH A GROUCH.


Jack Kenny was sore. He had been out of humor for a long time—to be
exact, ever since the football election last year, in which Don Tempest
had been chosen captain of the varsity—but he had done his best to hide
this feeling from those about him.

Dick Merriwell, himself the best all-around athlete in college, had more
than once expressed his belief that many of the triumphs of the very
satisfactory season of a year ago had been due to Kenny’s amazingly
clever headwork.

But the quarter back was not a fellow to foster a long-continued grouch
if he could help it. He had a decided strain of real sporting blood in
his make-up, and, after the first flare-up of rage and disappointment
when he learned the result of the election, he had calmed down and tried
to take things philosophically.

But with the return of Don Tempest to the helm just before the Princeton
game, the old feelings of doubt and resentment came back with renewed
force, in spite of the plucky efforts on Kenny’s part to take his
medicine like a man.

Tempest himself was not a fellow to help matters much. He was a splendid
player, and, what was more, a born general in his ability to plan out a
game and play it scientifically; but, like many generals in the bigger
game of life, he had a supreme belief in his own ability, an intolerance
of criticism and advice, and a certain lack of sympathy and tact in his
handling of the other players, which resulted in his being far from
popular.

Men recognized his ability and appreciated the value of his generalship,
while they did not care for him personally, which was well enough so
long as everything went along without a hitch and there were no
fall-downs.

All this did not help Jack Kenny in his effort—quite determined and
sincere—to conquer the feeling of resentment and sense of having been
used unfairly, which kept constantly cropping up in his mind. Hearing
now and then little jibes and flings against the captain from other
fellows only confirmed his own impression that Tempest was unfit for the
position.

This belief was fostered by his own keen observation during the progress
of a game or on the practice field. More than once he saw opportunities
which Tempest seemed to miss. Latterly they had had several run-ins
about certain plays and formations, of which Kenny could not see the
value, but which Tempest insisted should be used.

The result was that the quarter back’s usually even temper had become
more and more rasped as time went on, until he reached a point when the
slightest admonition from Tempest irritated him almost beyond endurance,
and a decided coolness had developed between the two men.

This afternoon had been a particularly trying one. Tempest had seemed
even more unreasonable and domineering than usual, compelling Kenny to
exercise every bit of will power he possessed to refrain from flaring up
and causing an open outbreak.

He did not want to do this. He knew the fatal nature of a team playing
at loggerheads, and the great game of the season—the contest with
Harvard—was too close at hand to run any chances. But he felt that if
Tempest continued in his present course very much longer no power on
earth could prevent an explosion.

“He’s so darned thick-headed and set in his ways that it makes a fellow
wild,” he grumbled to himself as he crossed the field toward the track
house. “If it wasn’t for the game Saturday, I’d have let him have a
piece of my mind to-day, and he could have done what he liked about it.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to hear what some of the boys
really think about him.”

Still scowling fiercely, he entered the house and found several of the
fellows there ahead of him. They were gathered in a little group on the
farther side of the locker room, and had evidently been discussing
something with a relish; but as Kenny entered they all stopped abruptly
and glanced swiftly toward the door.

“Oh, it’s only Ken,” remarked Phil Keran, who had taken Hollister’s
place at right end. “He’s all right. We were just talking about the
crazy stunts Tempest went through this afternoon.”

“Yes,” chimed in Rudolph Rose; “did you ever see anything more senseless
than that fool double pass he wasted half the afternoon on. Why a child
would catch on to it, and it couldn’t be used more than once during the
entire game.”

“And that crisscross play with Baxter and Merriwell,” spoke up Bud
Baulsir, who played centre. “You didn’t like that for a cent, did you,
Ken? I heard you kicking about it to Tempest, but a fellow might as well
argue with a stone wall as to try and convince him he’s wrong.”

“He’s so thick-headed and stuffed full of conceit that it drives a man
wild!” Kenny burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. “He seems
to think nobody but himself knows anything about the game. It was all I
could do to keep from giving him some talk straight from the shoulder,
when he spent the whole afternoon on those two pet stunts of his.”

“Why didn’t you?” Rose asked quickly. “Might have done him good.”

Kenny’s lip curled.

“Him—good!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Take another guess, Rudie. Bah!
The only thing that would do him good would be to have Harvard wipe up
the field with us, and then he’d blame it on some one else. I’m sick of
his high and mighty airs, and I tell you one thing, fellows, if he nags
me to-morrow the way he did to-day there’ll be something doing.”

“That’s the way to talk!” Baulsir said approvingly. “What business had
he got interfering with the quarter, anyhow?”

“He hasn’t any, if I show results,” retorted Kenny. “It’s all right to
tell me what he wants before we start, but I can’t stand this nag, nag
all through the playing. If he’s so crazy about deciding every play
himself, why doesn’t he take my place?”

“I notice things went pretty well while Brad was at the helm,” Rose
commented; “and he didn’t try any tricks like that. He played the game
as it should be played, and not——”

“’Sh!” interrupted Keran. “Here they come.”

The thud of feet sounded on the turf outside, and a moment later the
rest of the team appeared, filling the room with the sound of talk,
argument, and discussion. The group by the window melted away, and Kenny
made haste to appropriate one of the showers before they were all taken.

At the training table that night the football squad was not in the
liveliest sort of humor. Kenny still retained symptoms of his grouch of
the afternoon, and, besides that, there was a subtle undercurrent of
discord which made itself felt insensibly.

Dick Merriwell noticed the symptoms at once. He had, in fact, realized
for some days past that things were not as they should be with the team,
and that afternoon he had quite expected an outburst from Kenny over the
rather exacting ways of Tempest.

When it had not come, he was rather sorry, though he gave the quarter
back full credit for his admirable self-control. An angry outbreak or
open flare-up is much easier to contend with than the grudge which is
nursed and fostered in secret, ever gaining in strength and volume like
a snowball rolling downhill, until at length it proves a serious menace
to discipline and effectiveness.

He had noticed Tempest’s methods of running the team and had observed
with regret some of the mistakes the fellow made in handling the men.
But he realized that it was Tempest’s way of doing things. It was as
much a part of his make-up as his admirable executive ability, and quite
as impossible to change.

Merriwell’s keen sense of observation took in what Kenny either would
not or could not see—that Tempest was the better man of the two for the
place. His judgment was sounder and his knowledge of the tactics and
stratagem of the game better than Kenny’s. It was only his methods of
handling the men which were at fault and which prevented him from
obtaining perfect results.

Dick had worried a good deal over the matter, for he knew how much
depended on there being perfect concord among the members of the team.
To do their best, it was necessary for each individual to throw aside
all personal feelings and subordinate himself to the general good. The
slightest rift in the lute showed itself promptly in the lowered _esprit
de corps_ of the organization.

As yet he had not said anything definite to Tempest. He knew the fellow
was doing his best to secure results. His whole heart was fixed on
gaining a victory in the great game of the season, and to that end he
strained every effort. Merriwell had tried several times by means of
gentle hints to bring about an improvement in the condition of affairs,
but he was afraid that he should very soon feel like seeking recourse in
other methods.

Thinking the matter over at the table that night made him, too, rather
silent, and added to the general impression of uneasiness and disquiet
which prevailed.

Kenny was one of the first to finish supper and leave the table. Phil
Keran caught up with him as he was walking back through “Grub Alley.”

“What’s your hurry?” he questioned.

“Oh, nothing special,” the quarter back returned shortly. “I just didn’t
feel like hanging around there and hearing Tempest shoot off his face.”

Keran laughed.

“I should think you had had about enough of him for one day,” he
rejoined. “Got anything on to-night?”

“No. What’s up?”

“I just thought you might like to come around to our rooms and meet
Clarence Carr, Archie’s brother,” Keran answered. “You remember Archie
Carr, who graduated two years ago, don’t you?”

“Surest thing you know,” Kenny returned, brightening up a little. “He
substituted on the varsity the year I was captain of the scrub. I don’t
ever remember his brother, though.”

“Nice chap,” commented Keran. “Broker, I understand, and is taking a few
days off to rest up after a bear raid on the market. He’s stopping at
the New Haven House.”

“Yale man?”

“Nope, Brown. But he’s all for old Eli on his brother’s account. Crazy
about football, and is going to stay over for the game Saturday.”

They crossed Elm Street and struck into the campus by Durfee. Keran and
Kenny both had quarters in Vanderbilt, and five minutes later they were
settled in the latter’s comfortable sitting room on the third floor.
Carr had not yet arrived, but presently a couple of other fellows
strolled in, and about half-past seven there came a brisk knock on the
door.

Keran at once sprang up, and, opening it, ushered in a slim, erect man
of about thirty, with keen, dark eyes, rather good-looking features, and
fairly bubbling over with vim and good spirits.

“How are you, old fellow!” he exclaimed, shaking Keran’s hand. “Great of
you to have me here. Archie said I mustn’t lose any time in looking up
‘Old Phil,’ as he calls you, the minute I set foot in New Haven.”

“Glad to see you again, Mr. Carr,” Keran returned cordially, as he took
his guest’s coat and hat. “I recognized your voice perfectly over the
phone this morning.”

“Really?” exclaimed Carr. “You’ve got a good memory. Why, we only met
once, and that was three years ago.”

He greeted Kenny and the other men with a smile and hearty handclasp,
and then settled down in an easy-chair and pulled out a cigar case.

“I won’t offer you one, Keran,” he smiled, “because I know you shouldn’t
take it, but perhaps your friends will indulge. I’ll guarantee they’re
pretty good.”

He extended the case to Kenny, who sat nearest him. The quarter back
shook his head.

“No, thanks. I’m in Phil’s class.”

“Don’t you believe it,” grinned Keran. “He’s a sight more important to
the varsity than I ever could be. Why, I only got in after the Princeton
game by the skin of my teeth, whereas he’s been quarter back for two
years running.”

Mr. Carr seemed much interested. Proffering the case to the other two
men, who each took a cigar, he selected a weed himself and returned the
rest to his pocket.

“Well, well,” he remarked briskly. “Quarter, eh? That’s a pretty
responsible job. In my day the quarter back was the brains of the team.”

“So he is to-day,” Keran said quickly. “He would be at New Haven if we
didn’t have a fellow like Tempest trying to——”

He stopped abruptly, and his face flushed a little. In his haste he had
said rather more than he had intended, considering that Carr was a
comparative stranger.

The latter held the lighted match suspended in the air about six inches
away from his cigar, while he surveyed Keran’s embarrassed face with his
keen black eyes.

“Tempest?” he questioned. “He’s the captain, isn’t he?”

Keran nodded.

There was a momentary pause, during which Carr applied the match to his
cigar and took a puff or two to make sure that it was well lighted. Then
he leaned back comfortably on his chair.

“It’s always a mistake for the captain to butt in too much with the
quarter back,” he remarked casually. “Of course, if the quarter isn’t
onto his job he should be coached; but if he can’t stand on his own legs
at this stage of the game he ought to be dropped and some one found who
could. Constant nagging of the quarter back has been the cause of a good
many defeats. Why, I remember just such a case in my last year at Brown.
I was one of the subs in the game with Cornell. The captain had a grudge
against the quarter, and his continual interference got the fellow so on
his ear that we lost the game. Ballard—that was the captain—certainly
got his when it was all over with. Coaches, alumni, and about all the
team landed on his neck and roasted him good and plenty. He never
repeated the trick.”

Kenny felt a sort of warming toward his new acquaintance. He seemed to
be a man of a good deal of understanding, and the instance he had cited
fitted Kenny’s own case exactly.

“Of course, a fellow doesn’t mind suggestions, or even orders, when
they’re given at the proper time and place,” he put in hastily. “I hope
I haven’t got such a case of swelled head as to think that nobody can
give me points; but what’s the use of being quarter if you can’t do a
little thinking now and then on your own hook?”

Carr nodded understandingly.

“Exactly my point of view,” he returned quickly, exhaling a cloud of
smoke as he spoke. “I fancy the trouble with this Tempest is that he
wants to have his finger in everything.”

There was a momentary pause. Neither Kenny nor Keran seemed inclined to
pursue the subject farther. Presently Carr looked up at the latter.

“Of course you boys are going to wipe up the gridiron with Harvard on
Saturday?” he smiled.

Keran grinned.

“Oh, sure,” he returned quickly. “There won’t be anything left of them
to carry back to Cambridge.”

Carr laughed heartily; then his face sobered.

“But honestly, haven’t the crimson boys got a crackerjack eleven this
year?” he questioned seriously. “The splendid game they put up the other
day got me a little worried. I certainly don’t want to see old Yale
thrown down.”

“I don’t think you need have any fear of that,” Keran said slowly,
“unless——”

He hesitated. Carr’s bright eyes were fixed questioningly on his face.

“Yes?”

“Unless—— Oh, well, you can’t tell what might happen,” Keran finished
with an attempt at carelessness. “When Bob Hollister dropped out just
before the Princeton game it was the very last thing that any of us
expected.”

A gleam of comprehension flickered across Carr’s mobile face and was
gone.

“True,” he murmured, “one never can tell what might turn up. But we’ll
certainly hope nothing does. If I were betting on the game, I think I
should have no hesitation in putting my money on the blue.”

The talk drifted to other subjects, and for half an hour Carr
entertained the fellows with stories and amusing anecdotes. He was a
good talker and had apparently had all sorts of interesting experiences,
but he also knew when to leave off. As the clock struck half-past nine
he arose briskly to his feet.

“Well, boys, I must be running along,” he said, with a smile. “Had a
bully evening, Keran, and no end glad to meet these friends of yours.
I’ll see you all again before Saturday, I hope.”

He slipped into his overcoat and started toward the door. At that moment
Kenny recollected that he ought to do some studying that night, so he
followed the older man out.

At the head of the stairs they said good night again, and, as they shook
hands, the quarter back said carelessly:

“If you’d care to drop in and see me some night, I’d be awfully glad to
have you. My rooms are on the next floor.”

“Thanks very much,” returned Carr. “I’ll take you up some night and
smoke a cigar with you. By-by.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXV

                             THE EXPLOSION.


Jack Kenny, arrayed in his well-worn, faded football togs, sat lacing up
his shoes. He was feeling fine. His grouch of the night before had
pretty well worn off, and, as he pulled the laces tight, he warbled a
little ditty which had just been going the rounds of New Haven:

                   “There was a girl in our town,
                     And she was good to scan.
                   She spent her days in playing games
                     Where she got lots of tan.
                   And when she saw the tan was on,
                     With all her might and main,
                   She rushed into a beauty shop
                     And took it off again.”

The air was insidiously catchy, and, without realizing it, most of the
dozen fellows who thronged the locker room in various stages of undress,
hustling to clothe themselves for the afternoon practice, began to hum
it.

Kenny stood up and stamped each foot hard. Then, in his droning,
monotonous undertone—he had very little voice and less ear—he commenced
the second verse:

                      “There was a girl in our town
                       Built on a mammoth plan.”

Then the fellows woke up.

“Cut it out!”

“Shut up!”

“Close your trap, you old idiot!”

“You sound like a scissor grinder!”

Kenny ceased his musical efforts and looked around in wild-eyed
surprise.

“Thought you liked it,” he grinned. “You were all humming it to beat the
cars.”

“Of course we were!” retorted Rudolph Rose. “Why wouldn’t we when you
start us going?”

“I’d just got the beastly thing out of my head after whistling it the
whole blessed morning,” grumbled Teddy Baxter, “when you had to go and
begin it again.”

“Too bad,” Kenny sighed with suspicious meekness. “I won’t do it again.”

But the mischief was already done. All the way out to the gridiron some
one would burst out every now and then with a few bars, and then
suddenly close his jaws with a vicious snap and glare at the innocent
quarter back.

The latter took his place in the line quickly. He had resolved to keep a
good hold on his temper, and if Tempest was only halfway decent things
would go all right. He did not want to precipitate an outbreak, for he
knew that it would only make a bad matter worse.

“There are only a few days more,” he thought to himself, “and then it
will be all over. I’ll try and be good unless he shoves me too hard.”

Unfortunately, the captain of the varsity was not in the best of humors.
He had been worrying over a certain complicated pass, which he wanted to
use in the great game, but of which he felt rather doubtful. He knew its
value if it were only properly done, but he wasn’t at all sure that the
fellows were familiar enough with it to have it at their fingers’ ends.

Consequently he was a bit short in his manner when he ordered Kenny to
start out with that play.

“Fool!” grumbled the quarter back to himself. “Don’t he give me credit
for any sense? He might have known after the way things were left
yesterday that I’d start out with that pass. You might think this was a
kindergarten!”

He crouched, ripped out the signal, took the ball from Baulsir, and
slammed it to Baxter, who passed close behind him. It was a fair pass,
and the play went through successfully.

“Try it again,” ordered Tempest, as they lined up after the down.
“Little more ginger, Kenny. Don’t hold onto the ball quite so long this
time.”

Kenny flushed.

“What the mischief do you want me to do with it?” he snapped. “I can’t
very well pass it until Baxter gets within reach.”

“You know what I mean,” returned the captain shortly. “All ready, now.”

Kenny ground his teeth and bit his lips to keep back the retort which
was trembling on them.

“Gee! I’d like to give you one that would spoil that ugly mug of yours!”
he thought angrily.

This time his movements were like chain lightning. Snatching the ball
from Baulsir, he slammed it back so swiftly that Baxter, who was not
quite ready for it, clutched wildly for it, stumbled, staggered, and
only retained his hold on the slippery pigskin by a tremendous effort.
There was a momentary delay which gave the scrub a chance to lunge
forward, and the result was that the pass netted barely a yard, before
the down.

Tempest’s eyes flashed.

“Worse than before!” he exclaimed. “Why don’t you use a little judgment,
Kenny?”

The quarter back whirled around and faced him.

“Why don’t you give me a chance?” he retorted. “The way you’ve been
playing the game lately, it looks to me as if you didn’t expect any one
to have a grain of sense except yourself.”

Tempest’s face hardened. He opened his lips as though he were about to
make a sharp retort and then shut them with a snap.

“That’ll about do for you!” he said, in a hard voice. “Go over that pass
again, and do it right this time.”

Jack Kenny’s face was scarlet. His lips trembled and he was evidently
having a struggle to contain himself. Finally, with tightly clenched
fists, he turned his back to the captain and crouched in his place.

“By thunder!” he muttered. “I can’t stand much more of that. Just about
one more of those remarks and something will happen.”

This time the pass went through without any criticism on the part of Don
Tempest. He seemed to realize that he had been rather too hasty, and for
a time he restrained his very evident desire to dictate to the quarter
back.

Kenny kept at the pass until the fellows had it down like clockwork. For
a time he was obstinately determined not to leave it until Tempest gave
the word. The latter had been running things to suit himself. Let him
decide what he wanted done.

Presently, however, the quarter back realized the childishness of such
methods of procedure. Tempest’s interference was the very thing which
had made him so sore, and now he was simply playing into the captain’s
hands by his foolishness.

Consequently, when he was sure that the pass had been thoroughly
mastered, he gave the signal for the crisscross play which had used up
so much time the day before. He did not consider it of very much value.
From its very nature, they could not use it more than twice at the most,
during the entire game; but so much stress had been laid on it yesterday
that he went through it a number of times until he felt that the men had
it thoroughly in their heads. Then he branched out into something else.

For a time Tempest made no comment, though the fellows noticed that he
was getting more and more uneasy. They could see no particular reason
for it. Kenny seemed to be doing well enough. He was going through all
the passes and runs and formations which had been practiced so much for
two weeks back, alternating them with skill and judgment. It was a sort
of general review of the plays which they would use against Harvard, and
the quarter back felt that it was good season they went through it;
instead of spending all their time on one or two formations.

The shadows began to lengthen across the field. Presently the sun
dropped behind the west grand stand, and twilight swiftly gathered.
Still Kenny kept up his general tactics without returning to the double
pass or the crisscross which had used up so much of the afternoon. At
length, just as they were lining up after a round-the-end run, Tempest
spoke up again.

“Give us that crisscross again,” he said shortly.

“Bah!” grumbled Kenny, without turning. “You and your old crisscross!”

Tempest’s ears seemed to be abnormally sharp.

“What did you say?” he snapped.

His nerves were a little on edge from the mental strain and worry he had
been under for the past few weeks, and probably his voice was sharper
and more domineering than he realized. At all events, it was the last
straw. Kenny straightened up and turned slowly around to face the
captain. His face was a little pale and his lips firmly set.

“I said, ‘Hang you and your old crisscross,’” he returned deliberately.
“We’ve wasted three-quarters of an hour on it already this afternoon,
and the fellows couldn’t get it any smoother if they tried.”

Tempest’s face grew hard and set.

“Who’s running this team, Kenny?” he demanded. “You or I?”

“You seem to be making a pretty good stab at running the team and
everybody on it!” the quarter back burst out, throwing caution to the
winds. “You make me sick with your eternal butting in. You don’t give a
fellow credit for a grain of sense. It’s ‘Kenny do this, Kenny do that,’
the whole enduring time. You might think I was a machine that wouldn’t
work until you turned the crank. How do you expect to make out in the
game, I’d like to know? You’ll have to keep your mouth shut then. If you
don’t think I’m good enough for the job, why in thunder don’t you throw
me out and take it yourself? But no, that wouldn’t do. The trouble with
you, Don Tempest, is that you want to run the whole lot of us as if we
were a flock of sheep without any ideas of our own, and a nice mess
you’ll make of it. Look at the Princeton game! I’ve stood about all of
your domineering ways I’m going to for one afternoon. You can turn to
and be quarter yourself, and see how you like it!”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started toward the track
house at a rapid stride.

For a moment not a sound broke the stillness. Tempest glared after the
retreating Kenny as if he would liked to throttle him. The other members
of the team stood silent, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting
for the explosion with mixed expressions. Some seemed rather pleased
than otherwise at the turn things had taken, while others, realizing the
gravity of the situation, looked serious.

“You blamed little runt!” exploded Tempest as soon as he got his breath.
“If I don’t——”

He broke off abruptly as Dick Merriwell stepped quickly to his side and
touched his arm warningly. A few swift, whispered words passed between
the two. Dick seemed to be urging something to which the captain at
length reluctantly agreed.

“That’ll do for to-day,” he said shortly, his eyes sweeping over the
faces of the waiting men. “Three o’clock to-morrow, sharp!”

The group instantly melted away, most of the men being eager to get out
of earshot to talk over this new, and not altogether unexpected,
development. Dick, Tempest, and the coaches remained behind.

“It’s a case of insubordination, pure and simple!” the captain burst
out. “He’ll have to go!”

There was no word of acquiescence from the men around him, and Tempest
flashed a swift glance of surprise at their serious faces.

“You don’t agree with me?” he questioned shortly.

“Where are you going to get another quarter at this stage of the game?”
growled Bill Fullerton, the head coach.

“Why, Gillis, of the scrub,” Tempest answered. “He knows all the signals
and has the plays down pat.”

Almost in spite of himself, however, there was an undercurrent of doubt
in his voice.

“Punk along side of Kenny,” Fullerton said tersely.

“But I can’t take that line of talk and do nothing,” protested Tempest.
“In twenty-four hours there wouldn’t be any discipline left.”

He glanced at Merriwell questioningly, expecting confirmation of his
views, but Dick slowly shook his head.

“It wouldn’t do, Don,” he said slowly. “At least, not at this late day.
If we had a couple of weeks before the game, Gillis might be hammered
into shape; but it would be suicidal to put him in Kenny’s place now.”

He hesitated a moment and then went on quietly:

“I hate butting in, old fellow, but once in a while a chap’s got to. You
don’t mind if I speak rather freely, do you, Don?”

Tempest shook his head, but it was plain from the expression on his face
that advice was not especially palatable.

“Spit it out, Dick,” he returned shortly.

“It’s just this, Don,” Merriwell explained. “I think that, in a way,
you’re a little to blame for Kenny’s flare-up. He’s been sore for quite
some time. I’ve been watching him closely, and I rather expected the
outbreak would come before this. The reason why it didn’t was because
Jack was doing his best to keep his temper. I think he realized, as well
as you or I could, the folly, even danger, of a split in the team at
this juncture; and I honestly believe that he kept a grip on himself
until he simply couldn’t hold in any longer.”

Tempest’s face darkened.

“That’s a pretty hard one on me, Merriwell,” he said quickly. “You imply
that I practically drove him to the wall.”

“In a way, yes,” Dick answered. “Of course it wasn’t intentional on your
part. I don’t mean that, at all. I don’t suppose you’ve realized it, old
man, but you have been putting in your oar lately a little bit more than
is wise. No doubt you’ve seen the value of certain plays, which,
perhaps, haven’t appealed to Kenny, and have consequently harped on them
more than you have any idea of. You’ve lost track of the fact that Jack
is one of the ablest, most brainy quarters we’ve ever had, and that he
should be entitled to do a little thinking on his own hook. Besides, no
fellow, no matter how much of a dub he may be, likes to be constantly
pounded and hammered at before the whole team. Most men have to be
handled with a little diplomacy and tact—taken aside, you know, and
perhaps asked their advice as to the value of a certain play or
formation, instead of being ordered to do thus and so without having any
reason given them. Perhaps that method doesn’t appeal to you, but I have
found it much the simplest and effective way of getting results.

“The fellow is a bit flattered at having his opinion consulted. He does
what you want willingly, and half the time he thinks that it is his own
idea. Everybody is happy and the goose hangs high. Of course, you
haven’t realized it, but really, Don, you’ve been pretty sharp and
domineering for the past two weeks. I have a notion that the big game
has got on your nerves a trifle, and that, in your anxiety to prepare
against any contingency, you’ve gone at the fellows in a way which has
made others than Jack Kenny sore.”

He stopped, and for a time no one spoke. Then Bill Fullerton nodded his
head emphatically.

“That’s the talk!” he said decidedly. “Lead ’em, don’t try to drive ’em,
and you get better results. Let me do the driving when it is necessary.”

Tempest’s face was a study. Chagrin and anger struggled with a dawning
realization that Merriwell had spoken the truth. He was a fellow who
hated to be given advice, but he was also fair-minded enough to know
that Dick was not the sort who would speak as he had unless there was a
great need for it.

“I suppose you’re right, Merriwell,” he said slowly, at length. “A
fellow looking on can get a much better idea of the real state of
affairs than one who is taking part in them. Perhaps I have been too
sharp and quick in the way I’ve handled the boys, but, somehow, it isn’t
my way to get around a man in the manner you suggest. If I’m running the
team, well and good. But if the fellows begin to question my orders,
it’s about time I stepped out.”

“Nonsense!” Merriwell exclaimed. “You don’t get what I mean at all. I
hadn’t the slightest notion of your submitting to dictation from anybody
in your management. But there are more methods than one of getting your
way, and I think you’ll find that a little persuasion will go
considerably farther than downright bullyragging. You don’t mean it that
way, of course, but that’s how it appears to some of the men. Don’t
let’s have any more talk about your stepping out. Nobody’s going to do
that. This thing has got to be patched up or we’ll lose the game on
Saturday, the surest thing you know. All you’ve got to do is to take
things a little easier. Don’t try to run the whole team. It’s a wonder
you’re not a wreck now, the way you’ve tried to take everything on your
shoulders.”

“But I can’t help worrying about things,” Tempest protested. “I can’t
help seeing where they don’t go right, and trying my best to remedy
them.”

“You try too hard,” Dick retorted. “If you think it over, you’ll realize
that Kenny’s got brains enough to come out all right if he’s let alone.
You’re not going to try any more new stunts, and the boys have got the
others down to a point where their work couldn’t be very much improved
on. At least, try my plan, Don. Let Jack have his own way for a day or
so, and see if I’m not right—see if he doesn’t show results. He’s got to
play the game practically alone on Saturday. And it’s only fair that he
have his chance for the rest of the week.”

In his eagerness to make his point of view plain, Dick had spoken rather
more emphatically than he intended. He realized this, and went on
quickly:

“You mustn’t mind if I’m a bit sharp, Don. I haven’t minced matters
because I wanted to put things plainly to you. If we can only keep
things running smoothly and prevent such disagreements as this, there
isn’t a doubt in my mind that we’ll put it all over Harvard. But you
know yourself that with a team at loggerheads, when every fellow is
taking sides and questioning the ability of the man at the helm, there
isn’t a ghost of a show for good work. Think it over, old fellow, and
see if I’m not right. It’s only three days now before the game. See if
you can’t manage to hold in for that short time, and we won’t have any
more trouble.”

Tempest looked up with a wry smile on his face.

“I reckon I’ll have to,” he said slowly, “or there won’t be any team
left. How about Kenny, though? Will he come back?”

Merriwell’s lips straightened out in a firm line.

“I’ll see to him,” he said quickly. “I don’t think there’s any doubt
about that.”

Fullerton gave a grunt of relief as they started toward the track house.
Thanks to Merriwell, it looked as if serious trouble had been averted.

Jack Kenny did not appear at the training table that night. His absence
was not commented upon by the other men, who knew the reason quite well.

There was an atmosphere of doubt and suspense over everything, which
persistently refused to be cleared away. Had the quarter back left the
team for good? Had he been fired off? What had taken place between
Merriwell, Tempest, and the coaches after the majority of the men had
left the field that afternoon?

These and a dozen other vital questions were whispered by various
fellows to their neighbors; but no one felt like propounding them to the
principals in the affair, who did not volunteer any information.

Directly the gloomy meal was over, Dick hurried across the campus to
Vanderbilt and ascended to Kenny’s rooms. He found the quarter back sunk
into the depths of a big chair, his face black as a thundercloud.

He looked up quickly as Merriwell entered in response to his gruff
invitation, and shook his head emphatically.

“Isn’t a bit of use, Dick,” he said positively. “You’re just wasting
your time.”

Merriwell smiled.

“You old idiot!” he exclaimed, dropping down in a chair opposite Kenny.
“Have you any idea what you’re talking about?”

The quarter back pursed up his lips firmly.

“You’re after me to make it up with that fool Tempest,” he returned
quickly. “But I won’t do it! I’ve stood about all of his lip that I’m
going to. It’s nearly drove me insane.”

Dick crossed his legs and linked his hands loosely over one knee.

“It was pretty trying, wasn’t it?” he said quietly. “But you know, old
man, Tempest didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just his way. He’s so keen
about the game Saturday, and so afraid we won’t get those plays into our
nuts, that he forgets everything else.”

“The deuce he does!” retorted Kenny. “He’s done nothing but hammer and
pound at me since he came back on the field. You might think I didn’t
have any sense at all. It’s nag, nag, nag the whole time. ‘Do this, do
that,’ without giving a fellow a chance to do it himself. What am I
quarter for, I’d like to know, if I can’t use a little judgment? I’ve
played football as long as he has, and been on the varsity longer, yet
he treats me like a perfect kid. I tell you, Dick, I won’t stand for it
any longer. I—don’t care if I am—out of the game—Saturday.”

Despite his accents of bravado, Kenny’s voice faltered a little at the
end. Merriwell leaned forward earnestly.

“Jack, you don’t mean that,” he exclaimed; “you can’t mean it!”

The quarter back nodded emphatically.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

But there was almost a sob in his voice. Angry and excited as he had
been up to this point, leaving the team seemed the only natural thing to
do.

Merriwell’s face grew very serious.

“You can’t realize what you’re saying, Jack,” he said, in a low, clear
voice. “You can’t possibly be in earnest when you talk about leaving the
team four days before the great game of the season. Surely you know, old
fellow, that such a step would give Harvard the victory as certain as
fate. We haven’t any one who could possibly take your place and run
things the way you do. Gillis hasn’t got the head. That isn’t soft soap;
it’s the truth.”

Kenny’s slim fingers were busy tracing intricate patterns on the
upholstered arm of the chair. His eyes were averted.

“Gillis could do what I’ve been doing for the past two weeks,” he
muttered, in a low tone. “Any dub could do that. Tempest don’t want a
fellow to think for himself.”

“Did you ever try and put yourself in Don Tempest’s place, Jack?” Dick
asked swiftly. “Did you ever try and figure out what sort of a man he
was—what kind of a mind he has, I mean?”

The quarter back shot a swift glance at Merriwell’s face and then
dropped his eyes.

“He’s got a cursed domineering mind, I know that much,” he growled.

“That’s the way it might appear sometimes,” Dick returned; “but you
haven’t got deep enough. He’s a fellow with splendid executive ability,
with a wonderfully far-seeing mind and immense talent for the strategy
of football. Surely you’ll admit that.”

“He has doped out some pretty good stunts,” Kenny acknowledged
grudgingly.

“Of course he has. He’s amazingly clever at that. And it’s about those
very stunts that he makes his great mistake. His mind is so wrapped up
in the results he wants to get that he doesn’t care how he gets them.
Moreover, he’s intolerant of advice——”

“And mighty quick about giving it to others,” flashed Kenny viciously.

Dick repressed a quick smile. The quarter back’s manner was so like that
of a peevish child that he could not help being amused. But the feeling
was only momentary. The situation was far too serious for trifling.

“I know that,” he returned quickly, “and that’s what I told him this
afternoon.”

“Humph!” grunted Kenny, looking up swiftly. “I’m glad you did that much.
I’m glad he realizes that somebody besides me has noticed the way he’s
been going on. What did he say to that?”

“He hadn’t realized how far his enthusiasm and earnestness had carried
him,” Merriwell explained. “You see, Jack, Don is a fellow who commands
by sheer force of will. We have made him captain of the team, and he
expects to be obeyed implicitly and without question when he has decided
what he thinks is the right course. Another man might get his way by a
more sympathetic, tactful appeal; but Don can’t—he doesn’t know how.
That quick, sharp manner, which seems so imperious and domineering, is
unfortunate, but it’s just as much a part of his make-up as any
unpleasant traits of character which you or I possess are parts of ours,
and it’s just as hard to overcome. He doesn’t really mean anything by
it, and I think after the talk we had to-day he’ll do his very best to
modify it, if not cut it out altogether. I’ve been expecting you’d flare
up before this, Jack. If you hadn’t had great self-control, you would
have, for there was every provocation in the world; but you’ll find
things pleasanter from now on. You’re not thinking about deserting the
bunch now, are you?”

Kenny hesitated an instant and then looked up at Merriwell, with a
rather shamefaced expression.

“No, I reckon not,” he replied, in a low tone. “I don’t suppose I really
could have left the team in cold blood, but I was so blazing mad with
Tempest I was ready to do anything. Besides, I was pretty sure he’d fire
me off after what I said on the field.”

Dick wisely refrained from telling him that such had been Tempest’s
first intention. Springing to his feet, he gave the quarter back a
hearty slap on the shoulders.

“I knew you weren’t the sort to throw us down that way,” he smiled.
“Well, I must run along. Practice at three to-morrow.”

“All right, I’ll be there,” Kenny said, with a return of his usual
cheerful manner; “only, Dick——”

He paused, and Merriwell turned back from the door.

“Yes?” he questioned.

“You know I can’t promise to behave myself if Tempest starts in on his
old tricks,” the quarter back said hesitatingly. “I’ve held in so long
that my nerves are worn to a frazzle, and it wouldn’t take a whole lot
to start me going.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick smiled. “I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble,
but if Don should get a little aggravating try and remember what I told
you. It isn’t really his fault, and he doesn’t mean anything by it. Just
grin and bear it. We all have our troubles, you know.”

“Sure,” grinned Kenny. “Well, I’ll try my best. Good night.”

When the door had closed behind Merriwell, Kenny dropped back into his
chair, a smile still on his lips. The change of heart which Dick had
brought about was a distinct relief to the quarter back.

Looking at it in cold blood, he shuddered at his narrow escape. What an
awful thing it would have been if he had really thrown up his place on
the varsity. The thought of having the contest with Harvard take place,
and he not on the team, was appalling and sent an icy shiver up and down
his spine. That was the event to which they all looked forward eagerly
from the very beginning of the season. It was the culmination—the finish
of all things; and this game would indeed be the finish for him. It was
his last year. Never again would he have a chance to face the wearers of
the crimson. Not to have played on Saturday would have broken his heart.

He was still turning the matter over in his mind when there came a quick
knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door swung open and Clarence Carr, blithe, brusque, and smiling,
entered the room.

“Hello!” greeted Kenny, springing to his feet. “Come in and rest your
face and hands.”

“Didn’t expect to see me quite so soon, did you?” smiled the older man.
“But I had an hour to spare, so I thought I’d take advantage of your
invitation and look you up.”

“Glad you did,” Kenny returned cordially, taking the other’s overcoat
and hat. “Sit down and smoke one of your own cigars. That sounds pretty
inhospitable, but, not indulging in them, I don’t keep any on hand.”

Carr dropped into a chair and took out a weed.

“You didn’t put your foot into it the way one of the boys down in Wall
Street did the other day,” he remarked. “He’s a pretty gay bird
generally, but doesn’t happen to smoke. One of the brokers offered him a
cigar, which he declined with a virtuous air. ‘No, thanks,’ he says,
‘I’m not addicted to the vice.’ That naturally got the other fellow’s
goat. ‘It isn’t a vice,’ he snapped back, ‘or you probably would be.’
The drinks were on Harry that time.”

Kenny laughed and settled down comfortably on the couch. He had taken a
decided fancy to this fresh, breezy man of the world, who seemed to go
through life in such a jolly, good-tempered way.

“Well, how’d things go to-day?” Carr asked presently, in a casual tone.
“Any more rows?”

Kenny hesitated and a slow flush crept into his face.

“We did have it pretty hot toward the end,” he confessed. “I flared up
and gave Tempest a piece of my mind, and then left the field just about
ready to throw the whole thing up.”

A look of genuine anxiety flashed into Carr’s face.

“Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed quickly. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?
Why, it would just about give Harvard the game!”

“I’m not going to—no,” Kenny returned. “I’ve seen since then that I
couldn’t, of course; but I was so blooming mad at the time that I was
ready for anything.”

The broker sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Gee! You gave me a start,” he confessed. “I thought for a minute you
still meant that, and I certainly don’t want to see old Yale licked.”

He took a meditative puff on his cigar and then went on rather casually:

“Well, what was the trouble to-day? That captain of yours been
interfering again?”

“He sure has,” Kenny returned. “It would take the patience of Job to put
up with him.”

His face darkened at the remembrance of Tempest’s nagging. Though he had
promised Dick he would remain with the team, and was more than thankful
he had done so, his dislike for Tempest was not in the least lessened.
The feeling of soreness and sense of unfair treatment had grown so
gradually, and had been resolutely repressed for so long, that when it
finally broke forth into a flame it was far too strong to be quenched
readily, and, almost before he knew it, the quarter back found himself
narrating the whole unpleasant series of incidents to this new friend
who seemed so interested and so sympathetic.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Carr, when the story was finished. “I certainly
don’t blame you for raising a row. This Tempest must be a fearful
aggravating blade. What are you going to do about it?”

“Well, I’ll have to put up with it, I reckon,” Kenny said hesitatingly.
“Merriwell says he gave him a good talking to and thinks he’ll hold his
jaw and keep his hands off for a while; but I tell you this much, if he
starts in with his nagging to-morrow I shan’t be responsible for what I
do.”

“I should say not!” the broker exclaimed. “It’s a wonder to me you’ve
held in as long as you have. I’m afraid I’d have blown up when he first
started in to bulldoze.”

“I felt like it, you’d better believe,” Kenny returned; “but I didn’t
want to start a row. That sort of thing doesn’t do any good to the work
of a team.”

“No, of course not,” agreed Carr.

He smoked for a few moments in thoughtful silence.

“How’d he ever come to be made captain?” he mused presently. “I should
think your temperament was much better suited for the position than
his.”

Kenny flushed with pleasure at this remark.

“It was pretty close,” he answered; “but the fellows must have thought
he was better qualified. There’s certainly no doubt about his ability as
a strategist, or his thorough knowledge of the game.”

“But that’s very far from being everything,” Carr said quickly. “The
captain of a football team, or any other, for that matter, should have
tact. He should know more than anything else, almost, how to handle his
men to get the best results from their working together as a single
unit. Apparently Tempest doesn’t possess this qualification, but, from
even the little I know of you, I should imagine you would have no such
difficulties as he has run up against in that regard. You don’t mind my
talking in this frank way, I hope. You see, I’m very much interested in
it all.”

“No, of course not.”

Again the quarter back felt that pleasant glow of satisfaction stealing
over him. Clarence Carr was evidently a man of keen insight and
understanding. It was gratifying to meet a fellow of such perfect
appreciation.

The broker stayed somewhat later than he had at Phil Keran’s rooms the
night before. A good part of the time was spent in discussing the
football situation. Clarence Carr was a wonderfully clever man, and,
moreover, he had a distinct object in view.

Little by little, his insidious words penetrated to Jack Kenny’s mind
and stayed there. It was all so cleverly done that the quarter back did
not realize for a single moment that there was anything underneath the
pleasant, jovial broker’s discourse, punctuated now and then by witty
stories and amusing anecdotes.

But the result was that, by the time Carr took his leave, Kenny’s
dislike for Don Tempest had been fanned into a flame of hatred. His
sense of unfair treatment rankled bitterly, while his contempt for the
captain’s methods reached a point where he began to entertain serious
doubts of the fellow’s ability as a leader. Under such a man’s guidance,
he reflected, how was it possible that the team could work to any
advantage? Already the fellows were grumbling against his exactions.
What would it be like on the day of the game, when nervousness and
self-doubt is always rampant?

Carr’s hearty “good night” floated upward from the stairs, and Kenny
closed the door with a sigh and stood thoughtfully by the table. Nothing
seemed sure, now. He was even growing doubtful of their ability to wrest
a victory from the crimson.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                              THE SCHEME.


As Clarence Carr left Vanderbilt Hall he seemed to be in even higher
spirits than usual. Swinging briskly down the drive with a smile on his
face and humming a little tune under his breath, he passed through the
ornate gateway and turned to his left down Chapel Street.

He had good reason to be satisfied with the evening’s work. He had been
even more successful than he had hoped. The ball had been started
rolling, and there was nothing left for him now but to watch it
carefully and make sure that it kept on its way.

It took but a moment to reach the New Haven House, where he paused in
the lobby, keenly scrutinizing the occupants of the comfortable
leather-covered chairs.

“Not here,” he murmured under his breath. “But I hardly expected he
would be.”

Without delay, he passed on to the bar, and he had scarcely stepped
inside the doorway before his eyes fell upon the figure of the man for
whom he was looking.

He was rather under medium height, and very fat. The striking,
violet-colored waistcoat covered a vast expanse of rotundity, and across
the front was looped a massive gold chain which looked almost like a
cable, hanging pendant from which, at the point where it passed through
the buttonhole, were half a dozen fobs, lockets, and diamond-studded
trinkets.

In the scarf of violet silk, which just matched the waistcoat, sparkled
a large diamond. On several of the pudgy fingers were a plentitude of
rings—also set with diamonds. But the most remarkable feature of the man
was the face which topped the barrel-like figure, and which had the
grotesque appearance of being set directly upon the broad, check-clad
shoulders without the usual formality of a neck.

It was smooth-shaven, round, and jolly, merging imperceptibly into the
bat-wing collar by a series of double chins. The eyes were small,
deep-set and blue, and had in them an expression of such infantile
innocence as to be almost incongruous. This, together with the soft,
smooth, pink-and-white skin, gave him the look of a plump, good-natured
cherub, who had allowed his taste for rather vivid colorings and effects
in the matter of dress to run riot.

But J. Harry Edgerton was very far from living up to his appearance.
There was nothing whatever of the innocent cherub about his personality,
though he had often found it expedient and profitable to allow that
impression to prevail. It had been invaluable in leading strangers to
stay with him in a stiff poker game, under the impression that the
pouting, childlike look of dismay as he surveyed his hand was a true
reflection of the cards themselves. Too late they would discover that
Edgerton was simply bluffing, and they would retire from the game
sadder, wiser, and poorer men.

J. Harry had thus acquired a manner which was in perfect accord with his
looks, and gradually this had become so fixed a habit that he rarely put
it aside, except in moments of great excitement or tension, when his
true self came to the surface. At other times he was the bland, jolly,
good-tempered and careless individual which his appearance implied. A
good deal of a sport, to be sure, but full of bright, witty stories,
which he narrated in a droll way that was irresistible, and altogether a
most desirable fellow to take a hand at poker or make a fourth at
bridge.

His small, bright eyes lit up and a wide smile wreathed his fat
countenance as he saw Clarence Carr advancing toward his position at the
end of the bar.

“Well, well,” he chuckled, holding out a plump, pink hand. “My old
college chum! How are you, Clarence, old boy? What’ll you take?”

Carr grinned as he clasped the bejeweled fingers.

“Glad to see you, old sport,” he returned. “Make it a rye high ball.”

“Scotch for me,” nodded the stout cherub to the waiting attendant. “And
say—bring them over to a table. I want to rest my bones.”

“Didn’t know they needed resting, Harry,” smiled Carr, as they crossed
the room to a little table in the corner. “They’re so bolstered up and
supported with blubber, you know.”

With a sigh, Edgerton relapsed carefully into a creaking chair.

“Same old joker, I see,” he chortled. “Wait till you tip the scales at
three hundred odd and you’ll feel the need of resting something. Whether
it’s bones or not, I can’t say.”

The drinks being set before them, each man poured out a generous three
fingers and filled the glasses with carbonated.

“Here’s how,” remarked Carr, raising his glass.

The stout man nodded and took a long swallow.

“Fair stuff,” he remarked, setting the glass down on the table.

Then he looked keenly at his companion, his fat lips pursed up a little.

“Well?” he questioned significantly.

Carr took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth deliberately.

“I think it’s going to work,” he returned in a somewhat lower tone.
“Tempest and Kenny pretty near came to blows this afternoon. In fact,
Kenny was so mad that, for a while, he proposed leaving the team
altogether. That scared me when I first heard about it, but luckily Dick
Merriwell talked him into staying.”

“Humph!” grunted Edgerton. “I should think that would have been the best
thing possible. There’d be no question then about the result of the
game.”

“No, of course not,” Carr said quickly; “but in that case the odds would
be in Harvard’s favor instead of being five to six against her as they
are now.”

Edgerton nodded comprehendingly.

“I see,” he returned, taking another sip from his glass. “That’s true
enough. I’m not very well up on this football business, so I have to
trust to you. But are you sure you can work this boy so there’ll be
enough of a split in the team to make any material difference in their
playing.”

Carr nodded.

“I think so,” he answered. “He’s got a pretty hot temper, though he has
kept it under control until now. He’s a bit sore, too, that he wasn’t
elected captain instead of this Tempest. If the latter only keeps on
with his bullyragging, even a little, the game is ours. Already the team
is taking sides in the quarrel. Some are for Tempest, some for Kenny;
and that means reduced efficiency in their playing. I can keep the
quarter back stirred up, all right, and by Saturday they ought all to be
at sixes and sevens.”

“Don’t he suspect your game?” queried the stout man.

Carr laughed.

“Trust me for that,” he returned. “He thinks I’m all for Yale winning.
He hasn’t a notion that there’s any motive in what I’ve said to him,
except the natural dislike of a man to see a good fellow thrown down.”
His face clouded swiftly and his heavy brows drew down into a frown.

“Blow me if I’m stuck on the job, though, Edge!” he went on in a
petulant tone.

The fat fellow’s smooth forehead puckered anxiously.

“What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “Not getting cold feet, I hope.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Carr exclaimed; “but the boy is such a decent
fellow and thinks I’m all to the good. I feel like a snake when I think
of what I’m trying to bring about. If Yale loses, it will be blamed on
him, in a way. Why, I believe the fellow really likes me!”

“Tut, tut!” clucked Edgerton impatiently. “Never let your sympathies get
control. It’s better not to have any; but if you must, why, keep them
under, Clarence—keep them under. We’ve got to pull this through, or
where will we be? Don’t let’s have any more talk like that. What’s the
boy to you, anyhow? You’ll never see him again.”

“Oh, I suppose not,” Carr said petulantly. “But I can’t help feeling the
way I do. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to back out. I can’t afford
to. That last slump in the Street left me high and dry. But if it wasn’t
for that I’d never put my hand to a dirty deal like this.”

An expression flashed across the fat fellow’s face which was far from
cherubic.

“Cut it out, Clarence,” he snapped; “cut it out! Stop thinking about it,
or the whole thing will slump. Take a brace, for goodness sake! There’s
nothing to be so squeamish about. You’ve been in lots worse things than
this.”

“I know that,” returned the broker quickly. “Don’t worry, I tell you.
I’m not going to back out. I’ve simply got to follow it through to the
end, or we’ll both be stony.”

The placid look returned to Edgerton’s countenance and, with a sigh of
relief, he picked up his glass and drained it.

“That’s right,” he murmured, setting it down; “that’s sensible. And now
about the bets. When can we start placing them? That’s where my work
begins, and I don’t want to be losing valuable time. How about
to-morrow?”

“Better wait until Thursday,” Carr returned thoughtfully. “That’ll give
you plenty of time, and I’ll be able to see how things go on the field
to-morrow afternoon. Of course, they won’t let me watch the practice,
but I can sound Kenny afterward. I’ve got him now so he loosens up and
confides everything to me.

“Well, Thursday it is, then,” chuckled Edgerton, his good humor quite
restored. “That’ll give me two full days to make a killing in New York,
and Saturday morning to do a little placing here. Let’s have another
drink. Same for you?”

The broker nodded, and Edgerton struck the bell sharply. The high balls
were ordered and swiftly brought. By the time Carr had finished, his
life took on a rosier hue. His momentary scruples had quite vanished,
and he flung himself into the game with renewed zest, laying out an
effective campaign for the morrow.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                           THE BREACH WIDENS.


Dick Merriwell appeared on the athletic field the next afternoon in a
somewhat anxious state of mind. After the straight talk he had given
Tempest the day before, and his subsequent interview with Kenny, he
hoped that things would go smoothly, but he knew that nothing was ever
certain.

He was too good a judge of character to imagine that a mere quarter of
an hour’s talk, no matter how emphatic it was, could be the means of
changing utterly the methods and point of view of a fellow like Tempest.
He felt sure that the captain of the varsity would do his best to follow
the advice which had been given him, but whether he would succeed was
quite another matter.

He had less anxiety in regard to Kenny. He felt that the quarter back
was sincere in his desire to have peace and harmony in the team, and
after their talk last night he was sure that the hot-tempered,
good-hearted chap would even put up with a little of Tempest’s nagging
without breaking out again.

But, strangely enough, the practice had barely begun, before he found
prevailing a condition which was quite the opposite from what he had
confidently supposed would be the case.

Almost at once he perceived that Tempest had a firm grip on himself and
was doing his best to preserve harmony, whereas Kenny acted as if he had
a chip on his shoulder which he was almost anxious for the captain to
knock off.

He was as nearly sullen as such a naturally good-tempered fellow could
be, taking his part in the game in a perfunctory manner without his
usual snap and vim; and, instead of going ahead on his own hook with the
various plays which had to be practiced, he was constantly pausing and
asking Tempest’s advice in a pointed, sarcastic manner which would have
driven anybody wild.

Naturally the latter got hot under the collar. Here he was straining
every effort to keep the peace, and Kenny, instead of meeting him
halfway, was doing his best to aggravate him and provoke a verbal
battle.

The result was that, before an hour had passed, the two were at daggers’
points, and a feeling of unrest and uneasiness had come over the whole
team, which seriously interfered with its efficiency, and prevented it
from doing anything like the good work it should have done.

Merriwell was puzzled as well as decidedly angry. What in the world
possessed Kenny? What had come over him since their talk of the previous
evening, when the quarter back had shown such a very evident and sincere
desire to see things go well, and, more than that, had promised that he
would do his best to that end.

Instead of keeping his word, he had gone to quite the opposite extreme
and was very evidently bent on rousing Tempest to a fury. Merriwell
could not understand it, and he was so angry with the little quarter
back that it would have given him the greatest pleasure to take the
sulky fellow by the shoulders and shake him, as one would a spoiled
child.

Luckily Tempest refused to be dragged into a verbal encounter. It was
evident to him that Kenny was deliberately working to that end, and, his
blood aroused, the captain strained every effort to keep a grip on
himself. It was one of the hardest things he ever did. His words grew
sharp and snappy, his face flushed and angry; but he tried to ignore the
quarter back, and managed to get through the afternoon without an open
clash.

Dick saw all this with regret, and, also, with an infinite admiration
for Tempest’s surprising self-control; and, as soon as the practice was
over, he stepped to the captain’s side.

“That was bully, Don,” he said, in a low tone. “You held in splendidly.
But that little rat ought to be turned up and spanked. I never saw
anything so aggravating in my life.”

“Aggravating!” foamed Tempest, who, now that he was alone with
Merriwell, gave full vent to his fury. “Aggravating isn’t the word for
it! By thunder, Dick, it was all I could do to keep my hands off the
little devil! I wouldn’t go through another afternoon like this for a
thousand dollars!”

Merriwell’s face wore a puzzled look.

“I can’t think what’s got into him,” he said thoughtfully. “I had a long
talk with him last night, and he promised to stop his foolishness and
behave himself.”

“And you see how he’s kept that promise!” Tempest said bitterly. “He’s
worse than I ever knew him to be. Honestly, old fellow, I can’t go on
this way. I’d go off my nut. Look here, Dick, let me hand in my
resignation and you take my place. You can pull things together and do
something with them. They’ll do anything you want them to, but if I try
to stick it out Heaven knows what will happen. Another day like this and
they’ll all be up in open rebellion.”

“Great Scott, man!” Dick cried aghast. “Why, you’re crazy! The idea of
changing captains at such a time as this! It couldn’t be done, even if
I’d consider it—which I won’t for a minute. You’ve got to keep on, Don,
and pull things through. And we’ve got to win that game Saturday. It
would be better for Kenny to go than you, but we can’t afford to lose
either of you. You must stick it out, old fellow. I’ll see Jack again
and give him fits. He’s got something on his mind which wasn’t there
last night, and I mean to find out what it is.”

Without delay he proceeded to the track house and hustled into his other
clothes. He couldn’t tackle the quarter back in the midst of the crowd
who thronged the place, but he meant to catch him as he was leaving.

Quick as he was, however, he barely managed to get into his things
before he saw his man hurrying out of the door.

“Jack!” he called, snatching up his overcoat and hat. “Wait a minute.”

Kenny turned rather reluctantly. It almost seemed as if he wanted to
avoid Merriwell, but the latter did not propose to let him get away.

“What’s your hurry?” he inquired, as he joined the other outside the
door.

“Oh, nothing,” returned Kenny, his eyes averted. “I just wanted to get
back to the dorm, that’s all.”

They were out in the street by this time, and, as they turned and walked
along the high board fence, Dick looked his companion squarely in the
face.

“What in the mischief has got into you, Jack?” he asked quickly. “You
told me you’d behave, and yet you’ve acted like a perfect kid all
afternoon.”

Kenny hesitated.

“I can’t stand that Tempest!” he burst out the next moment. “He makes me
daft.”

“Makes you daft,” repeated Dick. “Why, you’re the one who makes him, and
all the rest of us, hot, going around with a sour face and a chip on
your shoulder. If I’d been Don I’d have felt like giving you a good
thrashing. You never gave him a chance to be decent.”

The quarter back looked a little sheepish.

“I knew he couldn’t be,” he returned quickly, “so I just got in my licks
first. I thought I’d give him a dose of his own medicine and see how he
liked it.”

“You little idiot!” Merriwell retorted. “Do you know what you’re going
to do if you keep on this way? You’re going to lose the game for us
Saturday. If you can’t take a brace, we’ll be licked as sure as fate,
and there won’t be a person to blame for it but yourself.”

Kenny’s face flushed and he made a quick, dissenting motion with one
hand.

“Look here, Dick,” he protested. “That’s putting it pretty strong, isn’t
it?”

“It’s a fact,” Merriwell returned emphatically.

His words seemed to sober Kenny and bring him to a partial realization
of the gravity of the situation. All the way back to the campus Dick
kept up his argument, and by the time they got off the car at Church and
High Streets he had brought the quarter back into a contrite and fairly
repentant frame of mind.

At the same time, it seemed to him that Kenny was not so pliable as he
had been the night before. It had been harder to bring him to a
realization of the error of his ways. Somehow, Dick felt almost as if
there was a counter influence which was pulling against his
own—something which was encouraging Kenny in his rebellion and egging
him on in the disagreement with Tempest.

What it could be he could not imagine. Who among the quarter back’s
friends or acquaintances could encourage him in his fatal folly? For any
sane person must realize that if the fellow persisted in his course a
victory on Saturday would be seriously imperiled.

He was turning this over in his mind all through supper, and afterward,
walking along Church Street with Brad, Keran, and several others, it was
still puzzling him.

All at once his eyes fell on Kenny himself, walking down the street on
the other side, in earnest conversation with a slim, brisk man of about
thirty.

“Who’s that fellow with Kenny?” he asked quickly.

They all glanced over the way, and Phil Keran answered the question.

“Clarence Carr,” he said readily. “He’s Archie Carr’s brother. He came
in to see me the other night, and Kenny met him there. Nice chap, too.
Crazy about football. He played at Brown. He and Jack seem to hit it off
pretty well.”

Dick took in the man with a swift, appraising glance. He remembered
Archie Carr perfectly as a good football player and red-hot Yale man.
There was absolutely no reason why he should question his brother’s
loyalty and integrity, but still a tiny germ of doubt was generated in
his mind at that moment—something which sprang into being quite without
rhyme or reason, and which persisted in remaining despite its seeming
absurdity and incongruity.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVIII

                         IN DESPERATE STRAITS.


Twenty-four hours later Dick Merriwell was confident that some malign
influence was at work on Jack Kenny’s mind combating his own strenuous
efforts to bring about concord between him and Don Tempest. Some one was
doing his level best to keep the quarter back constantly stirred up in
his ire against the captain of the varsity, so that it required every
bit of Merriwell’s patience and perseverance to prevent an open break.

He had arrived at this conclusion simply from a keen sense of
observation. He knew Jack Kenny well enough to be perfectly sure that he
was not the sort of fellow to harbor a grudge to the extent which he was
fostering this one. He was a man who would be apt to flare up in a swift
outburst of wrath, but it was not at all like him to develop this
sullen, sneering, backbiting streak which had been apparent for the past
few days.

Some one must be egging him on; some one was deliberately encouraging
him to combat Tempest at every possible point; and that person must be
going about his underhand work with amazing skill and forethought. His
method of procedure must be so insidious that Kenny himself had no idea
he was being worked; for at no time did Dick question for an instant the
quarter back’s loyalty to his team or to his college.

Who this some one was, Merriwell had no idea. It must be a man who
either had a personal grudge against Tempest himself, or else had some
vital reason for bringing about an open rupture in the Yale team before
the great contest of the season.

Dick could not close his eyes to the fact that this last condition of
affairs was in a fair way to be brought about unless something speedily
intervened to prevent it. Little by little the fellows had been taking
sides in the unfortunate disagreement between the captain and the
quarter back.

The strain of having to keep a constant watch on his tongue was
beginning to tell on Tempest and showed in a loosening of the grip he
had on the team and a resulting decrease in its efficiency.

Quick to notice this, many of the fellows blamed it altogether upon
Tempest. They began to question his ability among themselves and wonder
whether his methods were right and whether he was going to lead them to
victory on Saturday.

Doubt and hesitation and suspicion were rife on all sides. It would take
but the merest breath to add discouragement to their number; and once a
team starts in with a doubt as to its ability to win the handicap
against it is tremendous.

Merriwell did his best to instill encouragement and hope into their
failing spirits, but, under the peculiar condition of affairs, he was
almost helpless to do any good in that line. Kenny had started the ball
rolling, and he was the only one who could stop its progress. If he
could only be brought to his senses and grant to Tempest his cheerful,
willing obedience and coöperation, the trouble might possibly be
stopped.

Men would see that his confidence in the captain was restored, and, in
their turn, might be inspired to renewed hope and consequent endeavor.

To this end, therefore, Dick bent every effort; but he was unsuccessful.
Kenny listened to his words, but was not convinced; and Merriwell knew
that some one else was working against him.

By Friday night he was almost certain that this some one was Clarence
Carr, who, for the past few days, had been spending every possible
moment in the company of the quarter back. He was the only unknown
quantity among Kenny’s acquaintance. The others were all beyond
reproach, and at last, incredible as the thought was, Dick became
convinced that Carr was doing his very utmost to bring about a rupture
in the Yale team, so that Harvard would gain the victory.

What the broker’s motive was he could not guess. There were a dozen
reasons why he might wish to bring such a thing about, and Dick did not
waste much time over that. The great thing was to convince Kenny that
Carr was meddling, and that he had an ulterior motive for wishing the
defeat of Yale; and this was almost impossible.

The man’s manner was frank and open. He spoke enthusiastically of Yale’s
chances for victory, even offering to lay a little money on the blue. He
referred often, though with apparent casualness, to his brother’s
intimate connection with the university, and with football; and more
than once he had been heard to wish that he had taken his degree at New
Haven instead of Providence.

Dick easily found an opportunity of meeting him; for he seemed to have
no friends in town except the college boys, with whom he had grown to be
rather popular. He found the fellow a keen, shrewd man of the world,
likewise an interesting and amusing talker, and possessed of a certain
degree of attractiveness. It seemed almost incredible that such a man as
he—polished, refined, and gentlemanly—could stoop to the underhand
methods which Merriwell suspected. And yet, if he were not to blame for
influencing Kenny, who was?

Having met Carr, Merriwell realized full well the utter impossibility of
convincing the quarter back of his double-dealing, without absolute
proof. And where was he to get that proof, when all he had to go by was
his own intuition?

Supper on Friday night was a dismal meal. The practice that afternoon
had been particularly dispiriting and lacking in vim and go. Fullerton
had bellowed himself hoarse and had been reduced to open wrath at the
wretched showing made by many of the team. Don Tempest, white-faced and
with set teeth, had struggled desperately to prevent himself giving way
to a furious outburst of rage at the aggravating Kenny, who seemed even
more possessed of the devil than usual.

Everything seemed to be at sixes and sevens, and it was scarcely to be
wondered that gloomy, discouraged faces were the rule that night, as the
fellows thought of what the morrow might bring forth and groaned
inwardly.

Merriwell, Buckhart, and one or two others tried to combat the
persistent gloom, but without avail. They, themselves, were not feeling
any too sure about things, and their cheering words were not of the most
convincing order.

Consequently, the meal went on to a silent finish; and then, as chairs
were pushed back, and the men arose, Tempest stopped them with a quick
gesture.

“Just a minute, fellows,” he said, in a low tone. “There’ll be a short
meeting of the team and subs in the gym at eight o’clock. Please be
there, all of you.”

At Merriwell’s suggestion there was to be a last effort made to rally
the failing spirits of the men and make them realize how grave was the
situation. It was all he could think of at the moment, and he meant to
take the floor himself and bring all his power of eloquence to bear to
try and brace them up. But, first, he intended to have another whack at
Kenny and see if by hook or crook he couldn’t bring him to his senses.

“If I could only prove something against that traitor, Carr,” he said to
himself, as he crossed the campus with Brad.

Suddenly he gave a start.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud. “I might try that!”

“Try what?” inquired Buckhart. “What are you talking about, anyhow,
pard?”

“Nothing much,” Merriwell answered, as he quickened his pace. “I was
just thinking.”

He did not speak another word until they reached the rooms. The moment
the door was closed he dashed into the closet, and, fumbling around for
a few minutes in the dark, presently emerged with an armful of clothes
and a flat, oblong box.

With wondering eyes the Texan watched him swiftly strip off his suit and
array himself in the one he had resurrected from the depths of the
closet. With ever-growing curiosity, he saw his chum open the box and
take out a jar of cold cream and some sticks of grease paints. Then he
could contain himself no longer.

“What in thunder are you up to now?” he exploded.

“I’m going to make a last effort to bring that little idiot Kenny
around,” he replied. “If it succeeds, I’ll tell you all about it. If it
don’t——”

He finished the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders and caught up a
stick of grease paint. Brad’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he
watched the rapid transformation going on before his eyes. A touch here,
a line there, worked wonders. Some false eyebrows, skillfully attached,
made the disguise still more perfect.

At last, throwing down the hand glass in which he had been inspecting
the whole effect, Dick snatched up a disreputable derby from the chair,
and, clapping it on his head, tore open the door and disappeared,
leaving his chum staring at the closed portal in a dazed fashion.

“Well, I’ll—be—hanged!” he exclaimed presently.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXIX

                        DICK MAKES A DISCOVERY.


J. Harry Edgerton had spent such a busy day in town that he missed the
Merchants’ Limited and was obliged to take the 5:30 train from the Grand
Central, which did not get him to New Haven until after seven. It was,
in fact, exactly twenty-five minutes past when he stepped out of the cab
at the entrance to the New Haven House and made his way leisurely into
the lobby.

As his smiling, cherubic countenance loomed like a full moon in the
doorway, Clarence Carr, who had been waiting impatiently for some time,
stepped quickly forward.

“Well!” he said, rather shortly, “I expected you an hour ago, at the
latest. What under the sun kept you so long?”

“Patience, my sweet Dromio,” gurgled the fat fellow, with a pacifying
wave of his hand. “Don’t fly at me like an angry cat. All is well.
Better than we hoped for, in fact. But let us lubricate. I cannot—simply
cannot—orate in my present parched condition of throat. It feels like
the desert of Sahara—I give you my word it does.”

The broker’s face relaxed considerably.

“Well, come along, then,” he returned. “I could manage one or two
myself.”

He linked his arm with that of Edgerton, and together they passed into
the bar and took their seats at one of the small tables. An attendant
was quickly summoned and brought glasses, bottles, and a siphon. Then he
withdrew, leaving them on the table at a sign from Edgerton.

Two high balls were mixed and promptly swallowed. Then J. Harry leaned
back in his chair with a contented sigh and took a comprehensive survey
of the room.

There were half a dozen men congregated at the other end of the bar,
while farther along, at a point nearly opposite their table, a rather
seedy individual, with flushed face and dented derby, had just slouched
in and ordered gin. The stout gentleman saw the drink poured out, with a
grimace of disgust.

“Pah!” he exclaimed. “Such a coarse drink, and so extremely deleterious
to the lining of the stomach! Never indulge in crude gin, Clarence. That
fellow is half seas over as it is. He’ll be put out directly.”

He watched the man drain his glass at a swallow and barely touch his
lips with the chaser. Then, dismissing the fellow from his mind, he
returned to the matter in hand, first, however, mixing himself another
high ball, which he consumed in leisurely sips while he talked.

He would have been somewhat astonished had he known that the object of
his criticism at the bar had performed a swift substitution of the
glasses under his very eye, and, instead of drinking the gin, he had
swallowed the chaser; and presently, when his order was repeated, the
full glass of gin was dumped into the slops by the bartender under the
impression that it was water, and another glassful poured out.

“Splendid success,” Edgerton chuckled. “I laid out every cent I could
beg, borrow, or steal, at bully odds. I should say about two thousand
odd, including everything. Now, if you’ve only done your part as well,
we’ll be in Easy Street this time to-morrow night.”

Carr’s eyes sparkled.

“Great!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be afraid, Edge. I’ve got things fixed so
that the whole team is at loggerheads. I’ve worked Kenny every minute I
could be with him, and kept that grouch of his nursed as if it was a
precious hothouse flower. The poor fool has never suspected me for an
instant. Thinks I have a sweetly sympathetic nature. I think there’s
hardly a doubt that we’ll win out, and then for another try at that game
of the Bluebell mining stock.”

Edgerton chuckled, and raised the glass to his lips.

“Good! We’ll place a few little bets here and there to-morrow among the
confiding village people, providing, of course, they don’t insist on
being shown the coin. Altogether, it ought to be a pretty nice little
rake-off.”

The man at the bar seemed to have had enough gin. With unsteady gait and
leering eye, he passed the table and made his way toward the door. As he
reached it, he caught his foot and nearly fell. The next moment he had
lurched out into the darkness.

On the pavement outside a surprising transformation took place. The
fellow straightened up suddenly, and, with a sweep of his hand, pushed
his hat up from where it hung over one ear. Then he started down the
street at a rapid walk, which was almost a run. There was not the
slightest sign of intoxication in his gait.

“By Jove!” he muttered. “That’s their game, is it? Thank Heaven I’ve
found it out! What a pair of blacklegs!”

He glanced swiftly at a near-by clock. It was almost eight.

“Gee!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “I’ve got to catch him before he
leaves for the meeting.”

The next instant he turned into one of the gates of Vanderbilt, dashed
up the drive, and cleared the steps at a bound. Upstairs he went,
lickety-split, and reached Kenny’s floor just as the quarter back opened
the door and stepped out.

“Wait a minute, Jack,” he said quickly. “I’ve got something to tell
you.”

“The deuce you have!” Kenny growled. “Who in thunder are you, anyhow?”

For an instant Dick had forgotten the disguise. No wonder the quarter
back didn’t know him!

“It’s Merriwell,” he said, smiling. “Quick! Give me a towel and some
water. I’ll get rid of this stuff while we talk. I’ve got my cold-cream
jar in my pocket.”

Pushing the bewildered Kenny before him, he entered the room and closed
the door.

“Hustle, boy!” he exclaimed. “A wet towel first, and then we’ll go at
the other.”

Still dazed, but under the influence of Dick’s dominating personality,
Kenny brought the moistened towel, which Merriwell snatched from his
hands. Already he had rubbed cold cream over his face. With the first
vigorous rub off came the eyebrows and most of the paint. Kenny gasped
as the familiar face of his friend appeared swiftly and strangely. Then
Dick plunged into his story, for there was no time to lose.

“This Clarence Carr,” he began rapidly; “you’ve been pretty chummy with
him lately, haven’t you?”

Kenny looked astonished.

“Why, he’s been in to see me several——”

“Exactly,” Dick cut in. “Talked football a lot, didn’t he? Said you were
being badly used on the team, I’ll bet? Perhaps he said you should have
been captain?”

The quarter back’s jaw dropped at this volley of questions. A rush of
color stained his face.

“Why, how—how—did you——”

“Never mind how I found out,” Dick flashed back. “Jack, he’s a crooked
scoundrel! He’s been egging you on to buck against Tempest for the sole
purpose of ruining the team and giving the game to Harvard.”

The flush died out of Kenny’s face, leaving it pale and set. His eyes
flashed indignantly.

“How dare you say that, Merriwell?” he exclaimed angrily. “He couldn’t
do such a thing. Why, his own brother went to Yale and played on the
varsity!”

“I know all that, but it’s true just the same,” Dick flung back. “Would
you believe it if you knew he and a pal of his had put up over two
thousand dollars on Harvard?”

“But how could he?” expostulated the quarter back. “He’s crazy for us to
win. He’s even——”

“I know all that,” Merriwell returned swiftly; “but this very night—not
ten minutes ago—I heard the truth from his very lips. He was talking
over it with his pal in the bar of the New Haven House. I was there,
made up this way. I had suspected him before. They didn’t know me, of
course. The bets were all placed in New York. They’re no better than a
couple of crooks. Listen!”

Swiftly, a little brokenly, but quite clearly, he poured into Kenny’s
ears the story of what he had discovered. The quarter back’s face was
pale and his eyes horror-stricken when the brief recital was finished.
For an instant he could not speak.

“His very words,” repeated Dick. “I’ve worked Kenny every minute I could
be with him, and kept that grouch of his nursed as if it was a precious
hothouse flower. The poor fool never suspected me for an instant. Thinks
I have a sweetly sympathetic nature.”

Suddenly the slim fellow’s face grew purple.

“Blazes!” he almost shouted. “The thundering, double-faced liar! I’ll
smash up that face of his so his own brother won’t know him! I’m going
down there this minute. I don’t care where he is.”

Without waiting to pick up his hat, he started toward the door, his
fists clenched and his eyes wild with rage. Dick caught his arm in a
grip of iron.

“Stop, Jack!” he said sternly. “You’ve got something more important than
that to do.”

Kenny struggled to release his arm.

“Let me go, Dick!” he pleaded. “The dirty scoundrel used me! I’ve got
to——”

“You’ve got to come to the gym with me,” Merriwell broke in swiftly.
“You’ve got to set things right with Tempest. The fellows are all in a
blue funk because of what you’ve done. They don’t believe in Don any
more, and you’ve got to make them believe. I don’t care what you do to
this sneak after to-morrow, but until then your duty is to Yale. I tell
you, Jack, the very game is at stake, and you’re the only man who can
stir the fellows up and give them back the confidence in Tempest which
you have taken away. Perhaps it’s too late now. I don’t know, but you’ve
got to try.”

While he was speaking, Kenny’s face grew calmer, and into his eyes crept
a look which was like fear. What if he had spoiled Yale’s chances for
victory by his idiotic behavior? What if it were too late for
reparation? A bitter pang, sharp as a dagger point, pierced him to the
heart. He saw himself branded as a traitor to the _alma mater_ which he
loved so well, and for whose success he would have willingly given up
his last breath. The thought sobered him like a dash of icy water and
made him forget everything but the desperate need for reviving the
drooping spirits of the team and restoring their confidence in Don
Tempest, the man he had wronged.

The quarter back ceased his struggles instantly.

“You’re right, Dick,” he said, in a strained voice. “I’ve been a blind,
beastly fool; but I understand now. I’ll do my best to straighten things
out with the boys. It can’t be too late—it simply can’t!”

He looked imploringly at Merriwell, whose face was very serious.

“I hope not,” the latter said soberly. “Lost confidence is a pretty hard
thing to restore, sometimes but we’ve got to do it to-night. Come, let’s
hurry.”

Without a word, Kenny snatched up his hat, switched off the light, and
together the two hastened down the stairs and out into the street.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXX

                        THE MORNING OF THE GAME.


Breakfast at the training table the next morning was a strange meal, to
which the fellows loitered in at whatever hour best pleased them. Many
showed signs of restless slumber, and the trainer was as watchful as an
old hen with a brood of chickens.

The principal topic of conversation was the surprising shift about at
the meeting last night on the part of Jack Kenny. He and Merriwell had
appeared in the gym so late that some of the fellows were about to sally
forth and hunt them up. They saw at once that he was very much wrought
up and excited, though Merriwell seemed as calm and steady as usual.

After the meeting was called to order, the quarter back got on his feet
and made a really impassioned speech in which he acknowledged what a
fool he had been in questioning for a moment Tempest’s ability as
captain, then besought the fellows to forget how he had been behaving
for the past week and do their best to pull things through to-morrow.

There was no doubt of his earnestness and sincerity, and great was the
speculation as to what had happened to bring about the change of heart.
Many laid it to Merriwell, but no one could be certain; for Kenny made
no explanation beyond acknowledging that he had been in the wrong.

Dick followed him with a few well-chosen, emphatic words, in which he
pointed out the need of organized teamwork, and cautioned every man to
put aside all thoughts of personal glory and work with all his might for
Yale.

His tone was hopeful and encouraging. He did not allow the fellows to
think for an instant that he had any doubts of their ultimate success,
and the results of the meeting were distinctly for the better.

Notwithstanding this, however, there were many signs of nervousness and
unrest the following morning. There always are on the day of a great
game. Men who never give a thought of their ability to win out at any
other time are seized with all sorts of absurd doubts and fears when the
crucial moment is so near at hand, which luckily vanish the instant they
line up on the field. It is only the long, anxious period of waiting
which is so trying.

Those who had Saturday morning recitations attended them, though it is
quite safe to say that they were little benefited thereby. The others
were sent out to the field, where they went through a short, brisk
signal practice.

Kenny showed up splendidly at this, and, as Dick watched him, he wished
to Heaven that he might have been brought to his senses before the
eleventh hour. It would have been so much better in every way. For
Merriwell could not help but feel a certain amount of worry and
uneasiness as to how the men would show up in the afternoon. Though he
preserved a smiling face and confident demeanor, he was inwardly not a
little doubtful of results. He knew, better, perhaps, than any one else,
how difficult it is to restore confidence once lost. Kenny’s awakening
had had a good effect, but whether it would prove a lasting one time
alone would show.

So much depended on how the game went at the start, and he resolved to
strain every effort to prevent Harvard from scoring in the first
quarter.

The short practice over, the fellows trotted a few times about the
gridiron and then returned to the campus, where they wandered about,
awaiting the arrival of the Harvard boys, who were momentarily expected.

Dick was detained by a consultation with Fullerton and Tempest, which
took place in his rooms. He did not, in fact, realize how the time had
flown, and was consequently surprised when the door was burst open
unceremoniously and his old friend Dale Sparkfair, now captain of the
Harvard varsity, rushed into the room.

“Richard, my boy, how are you?” he exclaimed, advancing with
outstretched hands. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

Dick’s face lit up with pleasure as he gripped Sparkfair’s fingers.

“Great, old fellow,” he smiled. “How’s yourself? Haven’t seen you since
that day last summer on the lake when we had a pick-up game of ball.”

“And you came so blamed near being licked,” the Harvard man put in. “You
were pretty bad, that day, old man. So very punky that I got careless
and let you in. Of course, had I been in my usual form, such a thing
would never have happened. I hope you’re prepared for a drubbing this
afternoon? Despite my native modesty, I am forced to admit that we have
collected such a team as Harvard—or, I may say, any other college—never
before turned out.”

His blue eyes were mirthful and his lips curved in a smile.

Dick laughed.

“It’s a shame to disappoint you, but we’ve just about made up our minds
to take the trick ourselves. You know Tempest and Fullerton, don’t you?”

Dale turned and shook hands with the two men.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Met Tempest last year, and everybody knows old
Bill. So you think you’re going to do us? What a shock you’ll have. It
almost makes me sad to think of it. The Philistines may walk up and down
the earth, puffing out their chests and making a mighty noise of brazen
trumpets, but great will be their fall. _Timothy_, tenth-sixteenth.”

“Same old fake Scripture quoting,” Dick smiled. “Stolen from Blessed
Jones, too. One would never suppose you were such a religious duck to
look at you, Spark.”

“Many of my best qualities are kept hidden from the vulgar eye,” Dale
returned airily. “Say, I hear you boys have doped out a great line of
tricks. Got something up your sleeves for us, have you?”

“We have,” Dick said promptly.

“You don’t say! What’s the nature of it, if I may ask? Perhaps you
object to putting me wise, though.”

“No objection whatever,” Dick answered gravely. “It’s muscle.”

“Aren’t you the cute thing!” grinned Sparkfair. “Never mind. You’re safe
to get licked, secret or no secret. Where’s that bucking broncho of a
Buckhart? I’d like to shake his big paw.”

“Down on the campus somewhere,” Dick answered. “We’ll go down and look
him up. We’re all through here.”

“Plots, I suppose,” Dale remarked, glancing from Tempest to Fullerton.
“Too bad, but they won’t do you a particle of good.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXXI

                             ON THE FIELD.


High up against a fair blue sky, studded with fleecy clouds, streamed a
mammoth banner of blue bearing in its centre a great white Y—a flare of
intense color visible from afar over the topmost branches of the empty
elms, and a beacon toward which the stream of spectators set their
steps.

Derby Avenue was filled from curb to curb with a slowly moving
procession of motor cars, horse-drawn vehicles of all kinds, street
cars, loaded to the very steps with a laughing, chattering mob of
humanity, all making their way toward the athletic field.

As two o’clock approached, the throngs at the gates moved faster,
swaying and pushing past the ticket takers and streaming out onto the
field toward the stands already piled high with enthusiastic humanity.
Under the great flag stretched a long bank of somber grays and blacks,
brightened here and there by lighter feminine apparel, and everywhere
was a multitude of smaller fluttering flags of blue, which looked from a
little distance as if the big banner had dripped its dye upon the crowd
beneath.

Violets were everywhere. Great masses of them pinned upon the
tailor-made coats of charming, eager girls. Smaller bunches in the
buttonholes of their escorts; and their perfume wafted out over the
field, filled the air with a sweet, penetrating odor which was far more
like that of a day in June than one in brisk, blustering late November.

Opposite, the rival tiers of crowded seats were picked out in vivid
crimson, and between stretched a smooth expanse of russet-hued turf,
ribbed with white lines that glared in the afternoon sun.

The great band played blithely; the thousands of eager spectators
talked, laughed, or shouted ceaselessly; and the cheering sections were
loudly contending for vocal supremacy.

Suddenly onto the field trotted a little band of men in blue sweaters
with white Y’s; and quite as suddenly the Yale stands arose and the
Harvard cheers were blotted out by a mighty chorus that swept from end
to end of the structure and thundered impressively across the field.

“Yale! Yale! Yale! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Yale!
Yale! Yale!”

It was repeated over and over again, and then the crimson-clad youths
trotted into view and it was Harvard’s turn to make a noise.

The substitutes of both teams retired to the side lines, and the players
who were to start the game warmed up. The cheering on the stands gave
place to songs which drowned the music of the band, until, at length,
three persons, a youth in blue, a youth in crimson, and a man in
everyday attire, met in the middle of the field and watched a coin spin
upward in the sunlight and fall to the ground.

Then swiftly the contending forces took their positions, the linesmen
and timekeeper hurried forward and the great stands were almost stilled.

Yale had the ball and the west goal. Baulsir placed the pigskin to his
liking and drew back. Tempest shouted a last word of warning. The
referee raised his whistle.

The next instant it sounded shrilly, the ball sped away, and the game
began.

Within the first five minutes it became evident to the excited thousands
that the game was to be a desperate struggle from start to finish.
Sparkfair had not been altogether jesting when he told Merriwell that
his team was the best which had ever been turned out at Cambridge. What
little they lacked in weight, compared with the brawny Yale line, they
made up in cleverness and teamwork, and they played the game from the
beginning with a snap and vim which was a joy to see.

Yale was not noticeably behind them. Animated by the contagious optimism
of Merriwell, Buckhart, and some of the older players, they met the rush
of the crimson line like a wall of rock and contested every foot of
advance.

Jack Kenny was doing wonders. Thrilled by the necessity of making up for
the harm he had wrought unconsciously, he played for all that was in
him, and the result was an exhibition of brilliant headwork and resource
such as is seldom seen.

Back and forth surged the lines of men. Now and then one side or the
other would bring into play some unexpected, spectacular stunt which
drew forth shouts of delight from the stands and gave them the momentary
advantage, only to have their opponents retaliate in kind.

The first quarter passed without either side scoring. The crowds were
wild with excitement, and during the brief three-minute pause they
cheered themselves hoarse and nearly stamped the grand stands down in
their efforts to show their enthusiastic appreciation.

At the beginning of the second quarter Harvard rushed the ball down the
field in a determined, irresistible effort to score. They were opposed
with equal determination, and the battle was on again.

Back and forth, back and forth surged the lines. Now one side had the
advantage and then the other. At length, Kenny tried the much-practiced
double pass with Baxter and Merriwell on Harvard’s thirty-yard line, and
it worked.

Swiftly the pigskin flew through the air into Teddy Baxter’s waiting
arms. Without a pause he dashed on, crossing behind Merriwell, shooting
out into the field around the end, guarded by Crowfoot and Blair
Hildebrand. The crimson line plunged forward and to the left, sure of
their man.

Then, like a flash of light, the ball flew from Baxter into the waiting
arms of Merriwell, and Teddy lunged to block their opponent’s guard,
while Dick kept on without a pause toward the goal.

He made it, and the spectators on the Yale stand went wild. It was the
first moment since the start of the game that the tension had been
released, and, surging to their feet, they sent roar after roar of
cheering which thundered across the field in great crashes of sound,
stupendous in their volume.

Then came a breathless hush while the goal was being kicked, and after
that the noise commenced again, dying away gradually as the game was
resumed.

Nothing more happened in that quarter. The crimson-clad men, undeterred
by their opponents’ vantage, worked like tigers; but there was not
enough time left for them to accomplish anything, and the shrill sound
of the whistle left them on Yale’s forty-yard line.

“How about it, Dale?” Dick asked, as he passed the Harvard captain on
their way to the track house.

Sparkfair grinned cheerfully.

“That was only my generous spirit giving you boys a little needed
encouragement,” he returned airily. “Wait until the next quarter,
Richard, and see us wipe up the field with you fellows. We’re only just
beginning to get warmed up.”

Merriwell caught up with Jack Kenny, who was a little ahead.

“That was corking, Jack,” he said warmly. “You rang that double pass in
at exactly the right moment. They weren’t expecting it, and it couldn’t
have worked better. Keep it up, old fellow. You’re playing the game of
your life.”

Kenny flushed with pleasure.

“I’m trying to make up,” he said, in a low tone.

“And you’re succeeding,” Dick said swiftly. “We’ve got them going, and
now we want to hold them from making a score.”

In the track house, Fullerton gave the boys a short, pithy talk,
cautioning them not to lose their grip now that they had scored, and to
bend every energy toward keeping the crimson line away from the goal.
There was a vast deal of rubbing lame shoulders, ankles, and wrists,
until the rooms fairly reeked with witch-hazel and arnica; a perfect
babel of excited talk and speculation and laughter; and then they
trotted out to the field again and took their places on the gridiron.

Dale Sparkfair made good his joking words to Merriwell by means of as
pretty a round-the-end dash as had ever been seen on the field, and then
it was Harvard’s turn to let loose their pent-up flood of enthusiasm.
More than one undergraduate—and staid alumnus as well—could not speak
above a whisper for a good many hours.

The third quarter ended with the scores even. The excitement had risen
to a fever heat. With only fifteen minutes of play left, what was going
to be the result? Would the game remain a tie? That seemed incredible,
and yet it looked to a good many as though it would be the case.

The brief intermission was almost over. The spectators settled back into
their seats and the cheering started in once more. The sun was almost
behind the west corner of the stand. The shadows were lengthening and a
brisk, sharp wind, straight from the Sound, caused overcoat collars to
be turned up and furs to be drawn closely around fair necks. From the
crowded tiers of seats came the steady tramp-tramp of chilled feet,
hinting their owners’ impatience.

The players took their places; the breathless silence was suddenly split
by the shrilling of the referee’s whistle, and the battle was resumed.

Jack Kenny played the game during that last quarter as he had never
played before. His clever work rose to the point of brilliancy, for the
winning of that game had become an absolute monomania with him. He felt
that in no other way could he make up for his behavior of the past week,
which had come so perilously near bringing disaster upon his beloved
college.

It would be a triumph indeed if he could personally make another run for
the blue, but he felt that such a thing was too much to hope for.

But brilliant as was his manœuvring, which was ably seconded by every
man on the team, the splendid work of Harvard made it barren of results.
They were evidently determined that, if they could not score again,
neither should their opponents; and the hands of the big clock above the
stand moved inexorably forward without either side having the advantage.

Desperately Kenny tried every trick at his command, without avail. Back
and forth surged the gasping, ragged, tattered lines of men, battling in
those last few minutes as if their very lives, and more, depended on
their efforts.

The vast throng of spectators were thrilled into silence so absolute
that it seemed almost as if they had ceased breathing, as they bent
forward with staring eyes riveted on the field, oblivious to all else
but the struggle taking place before them.

There were but four minutes left when the quarter back suddenly ripped
out a signal and snatched the ball from Baulsir. This time he did not
pass it, but darted toward the left end. Tempest sprang forward and
swung in beside him; the left tackle and end interfered strenuously as
the crimson line plunged forward.

Kenny ran as he had never run before, and Tempest kept pace with him
barely a few feet away. In an instant they had cleared the opposing
guard and tackle, running free with only the full back and left half in
the way.

Kenny thrilled with joy and exultation. His chance had come. Tempest
would take care of the half back, and, somehow, he could manage to get
past the other. He would make a goal and win the game. Thus his
self-respect would be restored and reparation made for his amazing
folly.

But swiftly on the heels of this thought came another. What of Tempest?
If he made goal the fellows would think that he had been right all along
and the captain wrong. Would that be the sort of reparation he had
wished to make? Would it be the really generous thing to do? There was
but a second in which to answer the question, for the half back was
almost upon them.

Kenny stumbled suddenly, and uttered a sharp, stifled cry.

“Quick, Don!” he gasped. “Take it!”

Tempest was not slow. Without hesitating an instant, he caught the
pigskin skillfully and sped on; Kenny recovered himself with amazing
swiftness and lunged toward the Harvard half. A moment later they rolled
to the ground together, while the man with the ball flew on toward the
beckoning goal posts.

By the time the quarter back had staggered to his feet Tempest had
passed the full back. An instant later he crossed the line and
pandemonium broke loose.

Kenny felt a lump in his throat as he heard Tempest’s name hurled across
the field in great crashes of sound which thrilled him to the very core.
It might have been his own, but he did not care.

“I’m glad I did it,” he muttered. “It was the decent thing to do.”

Then he remembered that he ought to limp a little to account for his
stumble, and promptly developed a very realistic lameness, which lasted
until they were going back to the track house, surrounded by a yelling,
shouting, capering mob of fellows, who had poured out of the stands and
presently insisted on hoisting every one of the players up on their
shoulders and carrying them on their way in triumph.

Tempest headed the procession, and it was his name which sounded most
frequently from the mouths of the triumphant marching throngs. The
quarter back would have been more than human had he not felt a momentary
longing to be in the captain’s place, but he quickly smothered it.

“I’m glad!” he muttered emphatically—he might have shouted the words
aloud and no one would have heard him. “I’d do it again, too. I’ve been
dirty mean to Don, but this sort of squares us up.”

Reaching the track house, he slipped lightly to the ground and started
to go inside.

All at once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning swiftly, looked
into Dick Merriwell’s eyes.

“That was a clever pass, Jack,” the latter said quietly. “Did you hurt
your ankle much?”

Kenny flushed and dropped his eyes.

“Not very,” he returned, in a low tone. “I—I stumbled, and—er—er——”

“I thought it couldn’t be very bad,” Merriwell put in quickly. “You seem
to have gotten over it pretty soon.”

“It wasn’t so very bad,” the quarter back answered. “But I didn’t want
to run any chances, so I passed the ball to Don.”

There was a momentary pause, during which the slim fellow seemed to find
an absorbing interest in arranging with his foot three loose pebbles in
a triangle.

“You old bluffer!” Merriwell exclaimed suddenly.

With a gasp, Kenny raised his head and looked straight into Dick’s eyes,
which were watching him with an expression of satisfaction and perfect
friendship.

“Wh-what do you mean?” the quarter back faltered weakly.

“Just what I say,” retorted Dick.

He threw one arm over Kenny’s shoulder and smiled.

“You’re an old bluff!” he repeated. “There wasn’t an earthly thing the
matter with you out there. You stumbled on purpose to give Don the ball
and let him make the goal. It was a corking thing to do, Jack, and not
one fellow in a thousand could have brought himself to it. Didn’t you
start out with the idea of making it yourself?”

Kenny nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said, in a low tone.

“But you saw your chance, and you’ll never regret it,” Dick went on
softly. “You’ve evened up the score with Tempest now, and the fellows
will never have a chance to say that you were right and he was wrong. It
was generous, Jack, and I’m proud of you.”

A keen sense of pleasure and satisfaction thrilled Kenny to the heart.
Suddenly he looked anxiously at Merriwell.

“You won’t tell Don?” he questioned hastily.

“Not I!” laughed Dick.

His arm still about the quarter back’s shoulder, he turned, and together
they disappeared into the track house.


                                THE END.


“Frank Merriwell’s Tact,” is the next title, by Burt L. Standish, No.
193 of the MERRIWELL SERIES. It is an unusually good story.


------------------------------------------------------------------------







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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).