The resignation of Chester Arlington from the athletic committee created
no end of astonishment. He was overwhelmed with questions, but very
little could be learned from him, as he refused to answer.
"I made up my mind to do it," he said, "and I did it, that's all. I'm
not going to talk about it, so don't worry me."
It must be confessed that this action on his part lost him many
supporters. The plebes were indignant, as they lost a representative on
the committee, George Hardy, a first class man, being chosen to fill the
vacancy.
Perhaps Mark Crauthers was the most disgusted fellow in Fardale. He
sought Arlington and expressed himself in a flow of violent language,
without giving Chester an opportunity to say a word. When he paused,
Arlington sneeringly asked:
"Are you through?"
"Well, I haven't said half I could!" snarled Crauthers, showing his dark
teeth. "Why, we had things right in our own hands! With you on that
committee, the Black Wolves could have run things as they chose. You
lost the greatest opportunity you ever had to hurt Merriwell--the
greatest you will ever have."
"Perhaps I'm tired of this foolishness," said Chester.
"What foolishness?"
"Trying to injure Merriwell."
"What?" gasped Crauthers. "You? Why, he has insulted you in a dozen
ways, and you are the last man to----"
"Oh, I've forced it on him, and you know that Merriwell is not such a
bad fellow after all."
Crauthers seemed to be choking.
"Well," he growled, "I'm blowed if I didn't think all along that there
was something of the squealer about you! You blowed too much about your
father being the great D. Roscoe Arlington, and----"
"That will do for you!" said Chester, with a pleasant smile. "It is just
about the limit."
"The limit! Why, you haven't backbone enough to----"
"If you think so," said Arlington, "just walk down behind the cedars
with me."
"What would you do?"
"I'll agree to give you a handsome thrashing."
"You can't do it! Why, I can wallop any squealer that ever----"
"You're a big stiff!" declared Chester. "You do not dare walk down
behind the cedars."
Immediately Crauthers started for the cedars, a little grove that stood
within sight of the academy. Behind this grove, hidden from view of any
one in or about the academy, many a fight had taken place. It was a
favorite place for cadets to settle their differences when they had not
time to get farther away.
"Come on--if you dare!" growled Crauthers.
"I'll be right along," promised Chester.
Five minutes later the two, who had seemed on friendly terms up to that
day, met behind the cedars. Chester pulled off his coat and placed it on
the ground, dropping his cap upon it. Then he sailed into Crauthers.
Three or four cadets had discovered that something was going to happen
behind the cedars, and they were on hand to witness the encounter.
Arlington had taken boxing-lessons, and he was really skilful. True, he
had found his skill outmatched by that of Dick Merriwell in a personal
encounter, but now it did not take him long to demonstrate that he was
Crauthers' superior, and in less than ten minutes he had the fellow
whipped to a finish.
"If any of your friends make the kind of talk you did to me," he
politely said, "I'll cheerfully apply the same treatment."
Crauthers, with his face bruised and one eye rapidly closing, made no
reply, but he ground his dark teeth in impotent rage.
Arlington, however, had demonstrated that he would fight, and from that
time there was little outspoken criticism of his change in bearing
toward Dick Merriwell.
Brad Buckhart was heartily disgusted when he heard of the new position
Arlington had taken.
"Wouldn't that freeze your feet!" he exclaimed, as he finished telling
Dick about it. "He'll be trying to get chummy with you next. He will, I
know!"
Dick smiled a bit, but said nothing.
"Say, pard," came anxiously from the Texan, "I hope you won't let that
onery coyote come crawling round you any whatever. Not even for his
sister's sake. She's all right, but you can't trust Chet Arlington."
"Don't worry," was all Dick said.
That afternoon Arlington was on hand to watch the practise of the
football-team.
Unhampered by the orders of the committee, Dick had full charge of the
men on the field, and he put them through their paces in a way that
demonstrated what he could do with them if given full sway. The boys
seemed to show up unusually well and take hold of the work with new
interest.
Whenever a play was carried out with unusual adroitness Chester nodded
and smiled.
"Great!" he said. "The team is in the finest possible shape, and
Merriwell must be given credit for it all. I have doubted his ability in
the past, but I acknowledge my mistake."
"He makes me sick!" muttered Fred Stark, walking away.
Stark found Mark Crauthers talking to Sam Hogan over near the grand
stand. Crauthers had been doctoring his eye, but he looked as if he had
been "up against the real thing."
"Look here," said Fred, as he joined the others, "there's Arlington over
yonder clapping and cheering for Merriwell. I wanted to hit him,
but----"
"That's it!" exclaimed Crauthers. "I know just how you felt. I did hit
him! And he hit me! I hadn't an idea a fellow who had been whipped by
Merriwell could fight the way he can."
"He's a thorough cad!" declared Stark. "I see through his little game.
He's beaten by Merriwell, and he has given up. Now he hopes to get on by
turning round and howling for that fellow--hopes to get taken into
Merriwell's set, perhaps."
Hogan glanced round. Seeing there was no one near enough to hear what
they were saying, he spoke in a low tone:
"The Wolves are broken up. He's never been any use. We three are the
only ones left."
"And we may as well quit," said Crauthers regretfully. "If he gets in
with Merriwell, he'll give the whole thing away."
"One last meeting," urged Stark.
"When?"
"To-night."
They looked at one another, nodded, and Hogan said:
"I'll be on hand. The Den, I suppose?"
"Yes. It's not likely we'll ever meet there again after to-night. It
wouldn't be safe. If Arlington blowed on us----"
"But it will take him some time to get in with Merriwell. Dick Merriwell
is not going to take up with that fellow at once. Arlington will have to
get right down and crawl before Merriwell forgives him."
"I'm not so sure," said Stark. "There is a reason why Merriwell may be
glad to take up with Arlington."
"You mean----"
"Arlington's sister, of course. She's smashed on Merriwell, and he is
some smitten on her. That will make all the difference in the world.
I'll not be surprised to see Merriwell and Arlington chummy within a
week or so."
"It's disgusting!" growled Crauthers. "Do you know, I have heard that
these Merriwells always turn their enemies into friends."
"I know one who will never become a friend to Dick Merriwell," declared
Stark.
Hogan said nothing, but down in his heart there was a guilty feeling,
for in the past Dick Merriwell had befriended him, and he had once
thought that never again could he lift a hand against Dick.
But Hogan was a coarse fellow, and he had found it impossible to get in
with Dick's friends. Dick treated him well enough, but Dick's friends
would have none of him. This had turned Hogan's wavering soul to
bitterness again.
These fellows were satisfied that it was only a matter of time when
Merriwell and Arlington would become firm friends. That was because they
had not sounded the depths of Arlington's nature, had not realized that
his hatred was of the sort that nearly always lived while life lasted.
Arlington had taken a fresh hand and was playing his cards in a new way.
And he had resolved not to trust his most intimate friend. He, also, had
learned that Dick Merriwell had a most wonderful faculty of turning
enemies into friends without at all seeming to wish such a thing.
"The fellows here who pretend to be his enemies to-day may be fawning
around him to-morrow," Arlington had decided. "I must be careful and
trust no one. I will fool them all."
Be careful, Chester! There is such a thing as over-playing a part. You
may fool many of them, but you will have to be very clever if you fool
Dick Merriwell. You will find that those dark eyes of his have a way of
reading secrets, of seeming to look straight through you, of piercing
the dark corners of your heart and discovering your motives.
That night three dark figures stole away from the academy and made for a
certain strip of woods in the heart of which lay a jungle of fallen
trees that had been swept down by a tornado. Other trees had sprung up,
bushes were thick, wild vines overran the mass in summer, fallen
branches were strewn about; and still through this jungle a path had
been made. It led to a secret retreat, where the Black Wolves had met
many times to smoke and play cards and concoct plots. They knew the way
well, and they followed it through the semi-darkness, for the moon was
veiled by clouds.
At one place they were compelled to walk the trunk of a tree that had
fallen against another tree. At an angle they walked upward along that
often-trod tree trunk, coming to another fallen tree, lodged like the
first against the one that remained standing. Down the second tree they
made their way. Thus they passed over a thicket through which no path
had been made, coming beyond it to what seemed almost like a tunnel,
where the darkness was most intense. Creeping through this tunnel, they
arrived in the Den, which had been formed originally by a number of
trees that fell together, or were twisted together at their tops by the
hurricane, in the form of an Indian wigwam. Inside, at the bottom the
branches had been cleared away, boughs were spread on the ground, and in
the center was a stone fireplace, about which the Wolves could sit in
council.
Dry wood had been gathered and piled at hand, and some of this they soon
arranged on the stones. Dry leaves served in the place of shavings. They
were sheltered from the keen night air, but a fire would feel grateful
enough, and one hastened to strike a match with numb fingers.
The leaves flamed up brightly, the wood caught fire with a pleasant
crackling sound, and smoke began to roll upward. Then, of a sudden, one
of the trio uttered a gasping exclamation of astonishment and startled
terror, grasping the arm of another, and pointing toward one side of the
Den. There, bolt upright and silent, sat a human figure, seeming to
glare at them with glassy eyes.
So still was that figure that Crauthers, who had seen it first, thought
it lifeless. It seemed like a person who had sought shelter there and
had died, sitting straight up, with eyes wide open and staring. Was it a
tramp?
No. As the fire rose still brighter they recognized the unbidden one. It
was Miguel Bunol.
"The Spaniard!" exclaimed Stark.
"Spying on us!" burst from the lips of Crauthers, as he saw Bunol's eyes
move and realized the fellow was very much alive.
"Sure as fate!" agreed Hogan. "He is Arlington's right-hand man, and he
must be here as a spy."
Bunol laughed softly, coldly.
"Don't be fool all of you!" he said. "Bunol not a spy. Not much at all!"
"Confound you!" growled Crauthers, who seemed ready to leap on the
Spanish lad. "What are you doing here, anyhow?"
"I belong to Wolves. I have right to be here."
"You were not invited. You were not told we meant to meet here.
Then----"
"Bunol is no fool. He find out some things you do not tell him. But why
you do not tell him? He is a Wolf, and he have right to know."
"Oh, go to Arlington, your master!" exclaimed Fred Stark.
"Chester Arlington no master of Miguel Bunol!" returned the young
Spaniard, with heat. "Some time he find Bunol be his master. You wait,
you see."
The young rascals looked at one another in doubt. Up to this time Bunol
had seemed Arlington's devoted servant, and it did not seem possible he
had turned against Chester so soon and so unexpectedly.
"Trick!" muttered Hogan suspiciously.
Stark thought so, too. He believed Arlington had somehow learned they
were to meet there, and had sent Bunol to act as a spy and to learn what
happened.
"Better soak him!" said Crauthers, who longed to get revenge on Chester
in some manner, and thought it would be partial revenge to give his
trusted servant a good thumping.
Bunol had not stirred. He was watching them closely with his keen eyes,
and his equally keen ears missed not a word they spoke. He understood,
too.
"Don't be fools!" he said, in the same soft voice. "You will not find it
safe to soak Miguel Bunol."
"He carries a knife," said Stark.
Bunol's lips curled in a bitter smile. They did not know what had become
of his knife. Dick Merriwell had it, but some day he would get it back.
"Look here, you!" he said, "Let me tell you! I have done with Chester
Arlington as friend. You think a long time he is my master. Bah! All the
time I am his master! All the time he pay my way here at school. I make
him give to me the money. How I do it? No matter. I have way. Now he
have spend so much he get in bad hole. He try to throw me over. Ha! I
say no. He think he is my master, and he say I have to go. He give me
one hundred dollars to get me to go. I laugh at him. I say one thousand.
He cannot give that. I know he cannot give it. I stay. But I know he
mean to get done with me soon as he can. I have done many thing for him,
and it make me sore. Ha! See? No longer am I his friend. I make him give
me money, but no longer will I do anything for him. I like to see him
get it some in the neck. Ha!"
Again the boys looked at each other, this time wondering if Bunol spoke
the truth.
"What kind of a game is this?" muttered Stark.
But Bunol protested that it was no game at all, and he swore by all
things good and bad that he spoke the truth. He began to convince them.
He showed his feeling of hatred for Chester Arlington was intense as
well as unreasoning. He seemed to feel that, after providing him with
money so long, after accepting him as a companion, after introducing him
as belonging to a noble family, that Chester had no right to cast him
off and refuse to maintain him longer. He seemed to feel that Chester
was doing him a great injury, and he was burning with a desire for
revenge.
Crauthers, Hogan, and Stark put their heads together and whispered.
"What do you think?" asked Hogan.
"Fellow's on the level," said Stark.
"Believe that's right," agreed Crauthers.
"Shall we trust him?"
"He may come handy."
"Just the one to get at Arlington."
"He may betray us," suggested Hogan.
"Put him to the test," recommended Stark.
"How?" questioned Crauthers.
"Require him to make some move against Arlington."
"Good idea!"
"First-class!"
"Let him make good by attacking Arlington," grinned Hogan.
"Will he do it?" whispered Stark.
"Try him! try him!" sibilated Crauthers.
Crauthers was eager for the test. He told himself it would be great
satisfaction to bring about a clash between Chester and Bunol. It would
give him the keenest satisfaction to watch Bunol knock Chester out. But
could Bunol do it? Surely not unless he attacked Arlington unawares and
without warning.
The Spaniard, however, was just the one to make such an attack. It was
like him to spring on the back of an unsuspecting enemy.
"How much do you hate Chet Arlington?" asked Stark, as he turned to
Bunol, who was now coolly smoking a cigarette.
"How much? You wait, you see."
"But you must prove that you hate him. We can't trust you unless you
convince us. You have been his friend. How can we be sure you are not so
still?"
"How you want me to prove it?"
"You must jump him!" palpitated Crauthers. "You must give him a good
thumping."
"When?"
"First chance you get."
"All right," said Bunol. "I do that. I show you. Then you know I hate
him same as I hate Deek Merriwell."
Crauthers was filled with the greatest satisfaction. Was it possible
Bunol would keep his word? Then it would be fine to turn the fellow
against Chet Arlington. One thing that had brought Mark Crauthers to the
Den that evening was a desire to induce the others to stand with him in
a plan to humiliate and punish Arlington. And now they had stumbled on a
way of accomplishing that purpose without taking the work in their own
hands.
So Bunol was again admitted to the circle, and they sat about the fire,
warming their fingers and smoking. The blaze flared fitfully, lighting
their faces and filling the interior of the Den with a pleasant glow.
Like brigands were they there in that snug retreat of the tangled woods.
The wind did not reach them, for the thicket broke it. At times it rose
and roared above their heads. The trees creaked at intervals, but in all
that strip of woods no living creature save themselves seemed present.
Winter was at hand. The breath of King Cold was sweeping across the
world. Yet they were warm and comfortable in their sheltered retreat.
With blankets and a fire they could have passed the night there in an
agreeable manner.
"I'm getting sick of school," said Crauthers, tenderly caressing his
swollen eye. "I'd like to get away. I'd like to go West, or somewhere,
and live in the woods, and just hunt and fish and do as I pleased.
Wouldn't it be great, fellows?"
"It might be all right for a while," said Stark; "but you'd get sick of
it pretty soon."
Crauthers shook his head.
"Don't you think it!" he exclaimed. "I used to think I'd go to sea, or
run away and become a cowboy; but, of course, I've gotten over that, for
I've found out going to sea isn't such fun, and the cowboy business is
getting played out. All the same, a fellow could be a nomad and just
hunt and fish and----"
"And tramp!" laughed Stark. "No, thank you! I have no desire to lead the
life of a hobo."
"Oh, I don't mean to be a common hobo. I read the other day that there
are lots of people in the country yet who make a good living by hunting.
I'd like that. I like to hunt. I enjoy shooting squirrels and birds and
things, and I know it would be great sport killing big game. I'd enjoy
perforating a grizzly bear and then cutting its throat with my
hunting-knife."
"Oh, that would be fine!" came sarcastically from Stark. "But it would
not be such sport if you happened to wound the bear and he got you in a
corner. I believe grizzlies are somewhat dangerous under such
circumstances."
"Oh, I wouldn't mind the danger!" asserted Crauthers. "That would be
part of the sport. I'm not afraid----"
Then he stopped short, for through the woods rang a long-drawn, lonely
cry, like that of some prowling animal. Crauthers turned pale and showed
symptoms of agitation.
"What was that?" he whispered.
The others were startled.
"Sounded like the cry of a wolf or a wildcat," muttered Hogan.
The wind rose, rushed through the tree tops and died away. As they sat
there listening, the doleful cry was repeated, and this time it sounded
much nearer than before. The thing was approaching!