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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------