Bully Carson, long after midnight, was still sitting over a washbowl
in his room at home, bathing a startlingly black eye. It was a painful
operation.
He was growling savagely to himself as he worked. There was a strong
smell of arnica in the air, while his room was decorated with cigarette
stubs and hastily discarded garments. These latter were calculated
to be striking in appearance, and they were. When attired in all his
glory, Bully Carson, as Billy Mac said, could be heard coming a full
mile away.
Just at present he was attired only in his underwear, however, and in
several bruises. He had been adorning these with arnica, but not with
arnica alone, for ranged beside him were all manner of bottles.
At intervals of five minutes, Bully would anxiously pick up a hand
mirror and examine his injured eye. It was something of a job, since he
could only see out of the other one, and he gained little joy from it.
“He must ’a’ hit me with a brick!” he muttered vengefully. His mutter
mingled with a groan of despair as he took another look at his eye.
“Wow! I guess I’ll get my auto and get out o’ town fer a while--this
is only gettin’ worse every minute! Yes, sir, that’s what I’ll do, as
soon’s Ironton shows up. He’s watchin’ them fellers, and if they get
the constable I reckon I’ll have passengers in that car o’ mine.”
Bully Carson was disheartened, there was no doubt of that. He was
also discolored, and realized the fact thoroughly. He had counted on
flashing a particularly flamboyant necktie on the girls the next day,
but the colors would not harmonize very well with his eye. And his eye
was immense, and growing more so. Bathing only seemed to help it along.
He began to dress. Late as the hour was, he was determined to get his
car and slink out of town, rather than display his facial adornments to
Carsonville’s admiring gaze. He realized just how admiring that gaze
would be.
Suddenly he paused, at the sound of some one entering the house. He
started, then recognized his father’s step ascending the stairs. This
was strange, for when Colonel Carson had left for Fardale he had
expected to remain over Monday. A moment later the colonel opened the
door of his son’s room and stepped in.
“Still up, eh?” he said. Then his eyes took in the array of bottles,
and he sniffed. “Arnica?”
“Arnica,” repeated Bully sullenly, keeping his back to the light.
“What have you been doing?”
“I been sittin’ on the roof eating scrambled eggs--what’d you suppose?”
Being used to Bully’s disrespectful manner, Colonel Carson took no
notice.
“When I left, you agreed that you would get Merriwell laid out,” he
said. “Did you succeed?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t be packin’ up,” returned Bully. He moved around
until the light struck his face. “See that peeper? Well, I’m goin’ to
take that car o’ mine and beat it. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Hold on, son, hold on,” but Colonel Carson could not help smiling,
angry though he was. “Do you mean to say that kid licked you?”
“Don’t look that way, does it? He had about a dozen fellers hid in a
doorway, and they jumped us with clubs. We couldn’t do nothin’.”
Bully reeled off this astonishing lie with assurance. His father
examined the black eye with commiseration and rage.
“My poor boy! We’ll make that fellow rue the day he ever came to
Carsonville, son! So you were going away, eh?”
“Yes. I reckon I’ll lay over in Orton fer a few days.”
Orton was a small town fifteen miles from Carsonville, a mere country
village, where it would be easy to remain and pass over the injury
with any excuse. Colonel Carson nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s not so bad, son. I dunno’s it won’t fit in pretty well, too.”
Bully looked up suddenly.
“Thought you was goin’ to stay over in Fardale? You must ’a’ done some
tall hustling to get back on that late train! Did you see Randall?”
“Yes,” and Colonel Carson’s hard face darkened suddenly. “He’s no good
the way we thought, Bully. He won’t throw the game.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“I didn’t get down to reasons--didn’t have to. He’s one o’ these here
goody-goody fellows who believe in sport for sport’s sake, prob’ly.
Anyway, he shied when I mentioned it, so I changed my plans around a
bit.”
“You’re a wonder!” and Bully chuckled suddenly, in unholy admiration.
“You got the slickest brain I ever did see! What’s the idea now?”
“Well,” and Colonel Carson sank wearily into a chair, “you know that I
want to get down some bets on this Fardale-Franklin game, Bully. The
only thing is how to know which team will win, d’you see?”
“Sure--even with this eye,” said Bully, with a grin. “Go on.”
“The Franklin pitcher is a wonder, but they don’t know it at Fardale.
Randall thinks he can win easily, if he pitches. And he’ll pitch if
Merriwell doesn’t show up, that’s certain. So if Randall pitches, it’s
a dead sure thing that Franklin wins the game.”
“And if Merriwell pitches----”
“Then it’s not so sure. But listen here, Bully! Randall put me wise to
something, something that made me alter my plans. We want to get back
at Merriwell, at both of ’em, father and son. The father will get hit
if Fardale loses, and the kid gets hit if he don’t pitch.”
“How so?”
“’Cause whoever pitches that game gets ’lected captain o’ the Fardale
team. I don’t understand it all, but that’s how she lays. If Randall
pitches, Merriwell loses out all around, d’you see?”
“And if he pitched, then he’d get the ’lection?”
“That’s it, Bully.”
The son grimaced, as he knotted a yellow-purple necktie about his neck.
“Then he can pitch, fer all o’ me. By thunder, I know when I got
enough, pop. If you can figger out any way----”
“Hold on, son, hold on!” and Colonel Carson tugged at his goatee,
smiling craftily. “You ain’t never seen the old man lose out very long,
have you? He ain’t a-goin’ to this time, either. Merriwell ain’t goin’
to pitch that game, see?”
“How you goin’ to keep him out?”
“That depends. Where is he now?”
“Gettin’ the constable to arrest me, mebbe,” returned Bully easily. “I
lost my hat, and he slung it away after seein’ whose it was. Ironton is
watchin’ to see where he goes fer the night.”
“Well, we can take care of him easily enough,” announced Colonel
Carson, with great complacence. “Your goin’ to Orton will come in jest
right, too.”
“Me? Not on your life!” exclaimed Bully fervently. “You don’t get me
mixed in no more doings with that kid, Merriwell, pop. Not much! I’m
done.”
“Oh, no you’re not!” said the other easily. “I’ll get over to Fardale
for that game, and I’ll get a good bunch o’ money down on Franklin.
That cussed fool Merriwell done me out o’ the McQuade mortgage, and I’m
goin’ to make him and his kid sweat for it, you bet!”
“I guess he wasn’t so much of a fool if he did you out o’ anything,”
muttered Bully, under his breath.
“Yep, it’s a good scheme, a mighty good scheme,” mused his father
reflectively. “I’ll give you a rake-off on them bets, Bully. Ain’t the
kid got an uncle named Dick Merriwell?”
“Sure. What’s the idea?”
Bully began to take a keener interest in the subject. He knew that the
wily Colonel Carson was rarely bested at such an encounter as this, and
hope sprang anew that his father could succeed where he himself had
failed.
“You wait, son. I ain’t got the precise details figgered out, but
they’re a-comin’. Yes, they’re on the way, all right.”
Colonel Carson fell to tugging thoughtfully at his goatee. An instant
later there came a soft whistle below the windows.
“There’s Ironton now,” exclaimed Bully.
He crossed to the nearest window, and flung up the sash.
“That you, Bully?” came the voice of Ironton.
“Sure, it’s me. What’d you find out?”
There was a trace of anxiety in his tones. He still half feared that
Merriwell would arrest him for that night’s work.
“It’s all right, Bully. I heard ’em talking. They ain’t goin’ to do
nothin’ about it, but figure on goin’ home to-morrow.”
“Ask where Merriwell is,” spoke up Colonel Carson hastily. Bully
repeated the question.
“He and the red-headed guy went up to the Morton House,” answered
Ironton. “How’s the eye?”
“Black,” said Bully, with a curse. “I’m goin’ to skip out o’ town fer a
few days. Much obliged, Ironton. See you later.”
He closed the window. Colonel Carson had risen, and was reflectively
fingering a telegraph blank he had extracted from his pocket.
“I’m glad to get that information, Bully. I guess I can fix Mr. Chip
Merriwell without much trouble!”
“I’d like to know how,” growled Bully.
“You will, as soon as you get your car out. I want you to do an errand
over at Orton, and I guess there won’t be any chance to go wrong this
time. Get ready, and when the car’s out come to my room.”
And Colonel Carson made his exit, whistling softly to himself.