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.
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