FURTHER PLOTTING.
Duncan Ditson was the first to speak.
“Hello, you here, Wolfe?” he said. “We wondered where you were.”
Bill Toleman stalked in behind Dunc.
“I reported last night, Lynch,” he said. “Let them know you were still
on earth.”
“And that soothed our disturbed spirits a great deal,” said Jim Poland,
finding a chair and gracefully seating himself.
“’Sst!” hissed Mel Daggett, who was the last to enter. “Don’t you know
the door’s open? Don’t talk so loud, you fellows.”
Softly and silently closing and latching the door, Mel waddled to the
morris chair and squatted on the broad arm of it.
Lynch, hands resting on hips, squared himself in front of Daggett.
“I wish you’d tell me something, Mel,” he said, with an air of
unmistakable accusation.
“Will if I can,” whispered Mel.
“How did the Merriwell bunch know where to find us last night?”
Daggett’s froglike mug took on an expression of puzzled blankness.
“That’s something I’d like to know,” he declared.
“Don’t you know?”
“Don’t I know?”
“That’s the question I put to you.”
Mel caught his breath with a hissing sound, glared at Mike with his
green eyes, and then slowly rose to his feet.
“Now, see here,” he snapped, shaking one of his knobby fists at Lynch,
“if you mean to insinuate anything about me, you’d better go slow!”
“Aw, sit down,” said Mike, placing his fingers against Mel’s breast and
pushing him back upon the chair. “Don’t do that with me, Daggett. Don’t
lift your fist to me; you’re liable to get hit if you do.”
“If you hit me, you’ll be sorry.”
“What’ll you do, peach on the crowd?”
“I won’t stand for that—I won’t stand for it!” palpitated Daggett.
“You’re not standing for it—you’re sitting. Somebody gave away our plans
to carry Tucker off to that old warehouse last night. Who did it? Who
peached?”
“Why do you come at me like this? Am I the only one who knew about your
plan? Didn’t the others know? Why don’t you make your talk to them?”
“Because I know Ditson, Poland, Toleman, or Wolfe would not breathe a
word of it. I don’t know about you.”
Mel squirmed and tried to rise again, but was once more pushed back by
Mike.
“Don’t get up,” said Lynch. “I’ve asked you a question.”
“And I’ve given you all the answer you’ll get from me!” snarled Daggett.
“I didn’t peach on anybody. You’ve never seen me trying to get in with
the Merriwell crowd. You can’t say as much about some of the rest of
your friends. I’m not calling any names, but you know who I mean.”
“Yes, you mean me,” said Wolfe. “Perhaps you think I’m the one who gave
it away?”
“I didn’t say so. I’m not accusing anybody. Lynch is making all that
sort of talk that’s being made.”
“Because I mean to find out how it happens that Merriwell gets wind of
everything we plan to do. Of course, if you say you didn’t let anything
slip, we’ll have to take your word for it, Daggett.”
“You needn’t take my word for it if you don’t want to. But if you
continue to insinuate, I’ll fight you as sure as I live. Perhaps you can
do me up, but we’ll see.”
“I hardly believe Dag would go back on us, Mike,” said Poland.
“Of course not,” put in Toleman.
“Anyhow,” said Ditson, “we can’t afford to suspect a fellow unless there
are proofs against him. Have you any evidence—any reason to believe Mel
squealed on us?”
“No reason beyond the fact that some one must have squealed, and I feel
confident the rest of the crowd wouldn’t do that.”
“This is not the first time you and I have had words, Lynch,” said
Daggett. “I want you to understand that I’m just as trustworthy as you
are.”
“But you’re a greedy hog. A fellow who asks friends twenty per cent a
month on money loaned to them would do almost anything.”
“That’s business, that’s business!” snapped Mel. “There’s nothing
underhand or sneaky about it. If they borrow, they know what they’re
expected to pay. If you mean to insinuate that I would sell my friends
out to the Merriwell crowd, let me tell you that you’re a confounded
liar. Is that good enough for you?”
It seemed that Lynch would make a lunge for Daggett’s throat, but both
Ditson and Toleman interfered and checked him.
“Steady, Mike,” said Dunc. “We can’t afford to have a fuss just now. The
very fact that Mel is so indignant over your suspicions ought to satisfy
you of his innocence. I’m satisfied.”
“Of course it was queer that Merriwell got onto the business the way he
did,” admitted Toleman; “but I am not willing to think that any one of
the fellows here turned traitor. It leaked out through some accident and
not through deliberate treachery.”
“You may be right,” admitted Mike, calming down. “I’m in a rotten bad
humor this morning. I ought to be after what happened last night. I’ve
just been telling Wolfe what I thought of you fellows for quitting me
the way you did. Somebody must have seen me knocked out by the Merriwell
crowd, yet you all skidooed like a lot of frightened rabbits.”
One and all, they protested that they had not realized he was knocked
out. Apparently none of them had seen Merriwell fling him against the
wall, at the foot of which he fell stunned and helpless. Satisfied that
this was the case, Mike once more repeated his statement that he had
been attacked by at least four of the Merriwell crowd and had been
knocked senseless by a blow on the head.
“I was having it with Merriwell himself when the others jumped on me,”
he said. “If they’d only let me alone about ten seconds more, I’d broken
that fellow’s back for him.”
“Perhaps,” nodded Ditson doubtfully; “but he has a very tough back.”
“Have you fellows read the papers this morning?” inquired Poland. “I
have. The police say the old warehouse was burned by firebugs. We want
to keep mum, fellows.”
“That was not all I read in the paper,” came from Toleman. “Didn’t you
notice the account of the burglarizing of Steigler’s costuming shop? I
want you to know that I’ve disposed of the outfit I wore last night. You
can’t find it anywhere around my joint. The rest of you chaps better get
rid of your stuff.”
“Oh, don’t be so timid!” mocked Ditson. “Who’ll ever suspect us?”
“Wait! What if some of the Merriwell crowd were seen and recognized?
What if they’re cornered and tell all they know? What if they take a
notion to tell, anyhow? Although they can’t prove it against us, I’ll
venture to say they know every one of us. Now, if the police get next to
them and ask them questions, won’t they name us chaps as being
responsible for that fire? If we’re named, you can bank on it that the
cops will search our rooms for some of the rigs we wore. I’d a hundred
times rather be pinched for the fire than the other job. We could swear
that the fire was the result of an accident, a lark; and, although we
might regard the other business as a lark, the police would not look on
it in that light, and the court would be sure to inflict punishment.”
“He’s right,” nodded Lynch. “I’m going to dispose of my outfit just as
soon as I can, and the rest of you better do the same.”
“I suppose you’re all so frightened now,” sneered Ditson, “that there
isn’t one who’ll dare lift his hand against Merriwell during the rest of
the term.”
“What’s the use?” grunted Toleman. “Never anything works right. Fellows,
Merriwell is too much for us. He has too much luck or too much
something. We’ll never do him any harm by striking at him direct.”
“You may be right about that, Bill,” acknowledged Lynch. “I’ve begun to
think so myself. It’s queer how some chaps seem to have a guardian
angel, or a genius, or something that always takes care of them. All
winter we’ve been saying Merriwell wouldn’t make much of a reputation at
baseball with the kind of team he’d have behind him this spring. Now
he’s attracting any amount of attention. Why, Billings—the great
Billings—has written it that Merriwell might coach the pitchers of the
varsity. Think of that—a freshman coach for the varsity pitchers! But no
one seems to realize the fact that Merriwell himself would be rotten if
he didn’t have a catcher behind the bat who knows him and all his
peculiarities. Only for Buckhart, Merriwell wouldn’t be such a star on
the slab. Where’s there another freshman who could go behind the bat and
handle Merriwell’s pitching? Where’s there another chap who could handle
the combination ball or any of Merriwell’s queer kinks and shoots? Of
course, a professional catcher, a big-league man, would be all right for
it; but I’m talking about the freshman ball players to be found at Yale
to-day. Don’t think I’m in love with Buckhart—he’s the fellow I dislike
most next to Merriwell himself. I’m simply stating the truth. Without
Buckhart, Merriwell would be an ordinary dub of a pitcher that any one
could hit.”
“I think there’s something in that, Mike,” nodded Ditson.
“I think so, too,” said Toleman promptly.
“Well, can’t you see what I’m driving at?” inquired Lynch.
“Not yet,” was the answer.
“Take Buckhart away from the team, and what will happen to Merriwell?
He’ll get his bumps, won’t he?”
“Very likely,” nodded Duncan.
“Sure he will,” persisted Mike. “If he tries to use those effective
balls of his, the catcher will fumble them. There’ll be passed balls
galore. Every man on the field faces the catcher. Let the catcher go to
pieces, and it’s up in a balloon for the rest of the bunch. Now, look
here, Umpty-ten Yale plays Umpty-ten Brown at Providence next Saturday.
Those Brown fellows can bat. If anything should happen to Brad Buckhart
to prevent him from catching in that game, Brown would have a cinch. I
know of lots of Yale money that is just begging for a chance to back
Umpty-ten. Fix it so Merriwell will lose his catcher, and we fellows can
line our pockets just as sure as fate.”
“How are you going to fix it?” inquired Ditson.
“Well,” grinned Mike, “if this crowd hasn’t got brains enough to devise
a scheme, it’s a mighty poor bunch. Let’s put our heads together and do
a little plotting.”