MIKE PUTS IT ON PAPER.
It is a simple matter to imagine what would have happened to Lynch had
he, under similar circumstances, thrown himself on the mercies of almost
any other boy whom he had hated and plotted against as he had against
Dick.
At the outset Merriwell’s intention had been to force the truth from
Mike’s lips, and then give him the alternative of leaving college or
being arrested at once. Even now Dick hesitated and wondered if that was
the only course to pursue. He stood meditating, with his eyes fastened
upon Mike’s face.
Somehow, a most remarkable change seemed to have come over Lynch. His
face wore a sad, resigned expression that was genuinely pathetic and
appealing. It had lost its usual grim and half-brutal aspect. Indeed, as
Dick watched, Mike’s chin began to quiver, and two tears started from
his eyes and rolled slowly down his cheeks, although no sound came from
his lips. Indeed, he bowed his head, seemingly seeking to hide these
tokens of weakness.
Was the fellow faking, or was he genuinely repentant? This question
troubled Dick. Under any circumstances, Merriwell believed the fellow
needed the attentions of a competent physician, for surely he must have
been mentally unbalanced for a time. It was not reasonable to suppose he
had been cured instantly.
“I am going to think this matter over, Lynch,” said Dick, after a few
moments. “I want to do what is right. If I decide to keep this thing
quiet and make no move against you, you must promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” murmured Lynch, without lifting his head.
“You must be examined by an expert in mental disorders. If he says your
mind is in such a condition that you should quit college for a time, you
must accept his decision.”
“Very well.”
“You agree, do you?”
“Yes, I’m ready to agree to anything that will give me a fair chance. I
don’t want to leave college. I believe I am all right now. Perhaps I
need a little medicine to tone me up, but that’s all. I appreciate this,
Merriwell. I can’t say much about it now, but I think I’ll prove to you
that I’m not ungrateful. I know what would have happened to me had you
been almost any one else. I confess I was depending on your generosity.
You have been generous with all your enemies—almost too generous. In the
end you overcome their enmity and win their respect. If you were afraid
of them, such would not be the case. At first I thought you were afraid,
but now I know my mistake. I doubt if you fear any one in the world.
Tell me the truth, Merriwell. Were you really ever afraid of anything?”
“Yes, indeed,” was the prompt answer. “No credit for courage may be
given a person who has never known fear. It is the one who has
experienced fear and overcome it who is really brave. I’m going to take
this pistol, Lynch. I shall also keep these bullets. I did not pick up
this weapon after you dropped it. Another person did that. In case I
find you’re not sincere in your seeming repentance, I’ll have evidence
enough against you to put you out of college in a hurry.”
Mike made no objection as Dick took the pistol and thrust it into an
inner pocket.
“I’ll prove to you that I’m sincere,” he suddenly exclaimed, once more
rising to his feet. “You wait; I’ll place the proof in your hands this
very night. I’ll fix it so that you won’t need that pistol as evidence.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Dick wonderingly.
“Never mind,” said Lynch. “You’ll find out soon. I would offer to shake
hands with you, but——”
“Prove to me beyond doubt that you’re genuinely repentant and ready to
do what’s right in future, and you’ll find my hand open to you,” said
Dick, as he turned toward the door.
“I’ll prove it!” cried Mike, following him across the room and letting
him out. “You’ll be convinced sooner than you think. Good night,
Merriwell.”
When Dick was gone Lynch turned back to his study table, produced a
paper pad, seized a pen, and prepared to write.
Across the top of the first page he wrote these words: “Voluntary
Statement of M. J. Lynch, Student at Yale, Class of Umpty-ten.” This was
followed by the date.
At this point Lynch paused, with uplifted pen, and a queer, crafty look
flitted across his face.
“I shall ask Merriwell to destroy this paper when he is satisfied that I
am sincere in my repentance. But what if he forgets to destroy it? What
if it falls into other hands, and is read by some one for whose eyes it
is not intended? I must be cautious. I must look out for that.”
Pulling the sheet from the pad, he tore it up and flung the pieces into
his waste basket. Then he arose, crossed the room, and opened a drawer
of his dresser, from which he took a very small bottle of ink. Returning
to the table, he sat down, selected a fresh, clean pen, and prepared to
use the small bottle of ink. For fully thirty minutes Lynch wrote.
“There,” he said at last, “there’s a full confession of my connection
with the running down of Buckhart’s boat, and of my attempt to destroy
Merriwell’s ghost with silver bullets. Now, what I need is a witness for
my signature.”
The witness appeared directly, for Bern Wolfe entered without pausing to
rap.
“Thought I’d come round to find out how you are, Mike,” said Wolfe. “By
George, you got a bump! What the dickens were you doing, anyhow? You
left us on the bleachers, and went hustling away, after announcing that
you couldn’t stay there any longer, and had decided to leave the field.
How’d you happen to get in there where you could be hit by that ball?”
“Never mind that,” said Lynch. “You’re just the fellow I want to use. I
have a little document here that I’m about to sign. I want you to attach
your name as witness.”
“What’s the document?”
Wolfe started to pick up the confession, but Lynch hastened to prevent
him.
“It’s private,” he said. “I can’t let you read it, you know. All I wish
of you is that you put your name on as a witness to the genuineness of
my signature.”
“That’s funny,” muttered Bern. “I don’t often sign anything unless I
know what I’m hitching my name to.”
“I’m not asking you to sign it. I’m asking you to append your name as a
witness to my signature. I give you my word that it won’t get you into
any trouble. Here, I’m going to put my name to it.”
Mike did so, writing his name in big, flourishing letters.
“Sit down,” he said, getting up from the chair and covering the paper
with a blank sheet which left no more than the bottom line and his own
signature in view.
Wolfe took the chair and picked up a pen, dipping it into the larger ink
bottle.
“Hold on!” cried Mike, catching his wrist and checking him. “Don’t use
that ink.”
“Eh? Why not?”
“Well, for certain reasons that I won’t name. Take that other pen,
please, and use the ink from this smaller bottle.”
“Aren’t you rather fussy?” grunted Wolfe, as he complied. “Where do you
want me to write and what do you want me to write?”
“Write here,” indicated Mike. “Write these words: ‘Witness for M. J.
Lynch.’ Then sign your name.”
Bern followed instructions, and then paused, with pen suspended.
“Hey? What’s this?” he muttered, staring at the exposed line of writing.
“What’s this about ‘a full and complete confession?’”
“That’s all right,” said Lynch, hastily catching up the sheets of paper.
“Don’t be such a rubberneck, Bern.”
Having made sure that the ink was dry upon the paper, Mike carefully
placed the sheets together, folded them, and slipped them into an
envelope.
“Now, if you’ll let me sit there a moment, Wolfe,” he suggested.
Once more sitting down, Lynch addressed the envelope, using the ink from
the larger bottle. Bern peered inquisitively over Mike’s shoulder.
“Eh?” he ejaculated. “Richard Merriwell? Say, what the dickens are you
writing to Dick Merriwell?”
With a queer, grave smile, Lynch found a stamp and affixed it to the
envelope.
“It won’t hurt you if you don’t know, Bern,” he answered.
“But I have a right to know,” spluttered Wolfe. “If I had thought you
were writing anything to him, you’d never got my autograph on it.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Mike, as he tossed aside his dressing
gown and took a coat from his wardrobe. “I’m going to step down to the
mail box.”
“Needn’t trouble yourself so much,” said Wolfe, with sudden eagerness.
“You’re not feeling well, Mike. Give me the letter. I’ll mail it.”
But Lynch shook his head.
“I wouldn’t trust you,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust any one. I’m going to
mail it myself. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Well, what does it mean?” growled Wolfe, as Lynch went out with the
letter in his hand.