Bob Randall slipped quickly inside, shut the door swiftly behind him,
and stood as if listening.
On his high, dark, and undeniably handsome face there was a look of
mingled worry and anger. His eyes seemed haggard, and Bully Carson
chuckled to himself as he recalled what his father had said about
Randall brooding over a fancied injury. It was quite plain that Randall
was in good shape to be worked on.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Bully. “What you listenin’ for?”
Randall dropped into a chair, wiping his brow.
“I thought old man Dobbs had seen me come in,” he explained nervously.
“You see, I got held up at school, couldn’t get away earlier, and had
to sneak past the guards. I came in the hotel by the back entrance.”
“How’ll you get back to your room?”
“Easy,” said the Southerner. “Rope to the window. I won’t want to be
seen around here, though, or I might get reported. Old Dobbs knows me
by sight.”
Carson nodded, and flung himself into a chair.
“I hear you got beaten to the captaincy of the nine,” he observed.
“That kid Merriwell seems to cop out everything.”
Randall’s face flushed.
“What did you want to see me about?” he said, with a scowl.
“About Merriwell,” Bully stated calmly. “Of course, he’s got you slated
to pitch against the Clippers Saturday?”
“Yes he has--not!” Randall lost his temper, and slipped into his
Southern dialect as usual when he became excited.
“I wouldn’t pitch if he did! I’ve had enough of these heah Yankee ways!
I’m goin’ to leave Fahdale, Cahson, for wheah a man doesn’t hog it all
because his fatheh is a big athlete! I cain’t swallow it and I won’t!”
“Good for you!” said Bully approvingly. “He has certainly treated you
mis’ably, old hoss. You ought to be captain of the Fardale team right
now! It ain’t fair treatment, I say.”
“I reckon not! These low-down Yankees truckle to him abjectly, Cahson.
You-all haven’t any idea of what goes on heah! When we played Franklin
last Satuhday, that fellow held out the best men on the team until I
was beaten. Then he showed up, put ’em in, and managed to win with
luck.”
Randall leaned back, trying to collect himself. Bully chuckled quietly.
It was evident that his cousin had worked himself up into a riotous
state of mind.
Randall was honestly convinced that his version of the Franklin game
was the true one. Had he pitched and won, he would have been elected
captain. He pitched, and was being knocked out of the box when Merry
arrived in the ninth inning and saved the game.
All Fardale knew that Merriwell had been held prisoner, and that Clancy
and Billy Mac had rescued him, all three appearing in the nick of time.
Yet Randall only accepted that as a story put forth by Merry.
He had brooded by himself, had pointedly avoided Chip on the baseball
field, and gradually managed to get himself into a badly overwrought
condition. Twisting every little incident, seeing everything in the
light of his jealousy and bitterness, it was not hard for him to
convince himself that he was the victim of a cleverly executed plot.
His state of mind was a bad one, and would require some severe and
sharp correction before his angle of vision could be straightened.
Fortunately for himself, he had not attempted to convince any one else
on the subject.
“That’s right,” Bully encouraged him, playing his cards cunningly.
“He’s done you dirt, Bob, for a fact. You ought to get even with him.”
“What chance have I?” Randall asked bitterly. “I’m all alone here.”
“Oh, I dunno about that. Pop and me, we figure to stand by our kin,
Bob. Didn’t he try to help you by keepin’ Merriwell out o’ that
Franklin game?”
Randall nodded, forcing himself into a strained calmness.
“Yes, and I want you to thank him for me, old man. It was no use,
though.”
“Virtue is its own reward,” quoted Bully. “We done our best. Now, pop
would like to see you pitch against the Clippers on Saturday, Bob. O’
course, we mean to beat you, but I ain’t goin’ to be in the game, and
pop would like to----”
“No chance,” broke in Randall, with renewed bitterness. Then he glanced
up, half suspiciously. “Why is your father so interested?”
“Because he likes you, Bob.”
Bully was too wise to persuade Randall along crooked lines. He sneered
at his cousin, in his own mind, for being a “goody-goody” fellow.
“I’d like to even up with Merriwell, Bob,” he went on cautiously. “We’d
like to have you pitch Saturday ’cause you’re a better pitcher than
Merriwell. We’ve got a new pitcher for the Clippers, and if we beat
Fardale at its best, there’ll be all the more glory in it.”
“I suppose Colonel Carson intends to do some betting?” Bob queried
keenly.
“Oh, a little, mebbe. Not much. Now see here, Bob: This guy Merriwell
ain’t used you right, to my notion. He’s played dirty against you, and
he’s got all Fardale persuaded that he’s a little tin god on wheels,
with a bell to his neck. There ain’t no use tryin’ to hit back at him
fair and square. We got to use his own methods.”
Bully worked himself into a virtuous glow. He almost believed his own
words.
“You tried ’em last Sunday,” retorted Bob gloomily. “They didn’t work.”
“We didn’t know just how slick he was, Bob. He could ’a’ got away
from us sooner, only he wanted to come in at the last minute for a
grand-stand play. He thinks that if he pitches against the Clippers
he’s sure to win. But we’d sooner have you pitch, ’cause you ain’t
crooked. We want to play a clean game; get me?”
Randall nodded. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he did not even attempt
to penetrate Bully’s sudden show of conscious virtue.
“That’s right, Carson. And I’d sure like to hand him one hot one before
I leave school!”
“You’d hand it to him if you pitched against the Clippers, Bob. I’ll
pass it to you on the quiet that we don’t know much about our new
pitcher, and he might pan out wrong. If he does, you stand a chance o’
winning the game. Of course, I want to see the Clippers win, but if you
could beat us square, I’d be satisfied. It’d make this Merriwell kid
squirm ten ways from election.”
Randall could readily understand that, according to his notions of
Merry’s character.
“Yes,” he assented, growing excited as the golden vision arose before
him. “Yes, I reckon yo’ ce’tainly have it doped out. If that could come
about, he’d sho’ learn a bitteh lesson, the low-down scoundrel!”
Bully grinned to himself. He could read his cousin like a book, and was
playing on the other with beautiful precision.
“Well, Bob, pop and I figgered up a plan. It ain’t a nice plan, but
this is our last chance to slip one over on Merriwell. He ain’t played
the gentleman in his dealings with you, and we don’t mind fightin’ fire
with fire for once.”
This amazing display of innocence did not astonish Randall. He knew
little of his precious relatives, and Bully’s assumed hesitation seemed
quite natural to him.
“Neither do I!” he growled, in return. “Where he is concerned, Carson,
I’d feel justified in doing anything!”
“Then do this, Cousin Bob.”
While he spoke, Bully took from his pocket the carefully folded paper
that had been given him by his father. Randall looked at it.
“Here’s the plan we figgered out, Bob: To get Merriwell out o’ this
here game, we got to keep him out by force. It ain’t no use appealing
to his fairness. He ain’t got any such thing!”
“Force won’t work, here at Fardale,” muttered Bob.
“But this powder will,” said Bully, leaning forward and dropping his
voice. “Hold on!” he cried, as Randall gave a quick start. “It ain’t
only a sleepin’ potion, Bob. If you could get Merriwell to drink
it any time Saturday mornin’, which is to-morrow, he’d sleep clear
through till supper time. They couldn’t wake him up, and if they did he
wouldn’t be no good.”
Randall flushed, drawing back.
“It’s a bad business,” he faltered.
“So’s your losing out for captain, Bob. Go in and win this game. What
if Merriwell does know you doped him? He can’t prove it. If you win the
game, you’ll show him up for fair. If you get beat, they’ll say he got
cold feet. You win comin’ and goin’, and we’ll even things up with him
once and for all. What say?”
Randall still hesitated. Looking at the folded paper which his cousin
held out to him, the criminality of the thing appalled him. His
chivalrous nature rebelled at the very thought.
But Bully’s cunning words worked on his mind. His fancied wrongs loomed
up large on his mental horizon. Once more a flood of bitterness swept
over him, and he felt himself justified in doing anything.
“I’ll do it,” he said thickly, and took the paper.
“Promise?”
“My word is my promise,” cried Randall, half angrily. Then he glanced
around with sudden alarm. “Say, I’ve been here too long. See if any
one’s in the hall, so I can get out the back way to the side street.”
Bully opened the door and announced that the coast was clear. On this
Randall silently shook hands with him, then stole off down the corridor
on tiptoe.
For a moment Bully watched, then his eyes went to the opposite door.
In the silence he could plainly hear a gentle, regular snore. Still
watching that door, he drew the key from his own lock.
Then he snapped off his own light, and in two quick steps was across
the hall. For an instant he fumbled at the door, with deft fingers
that turned back the lock in perfect silence. Slowly and cautiously he
pressed the knob and opened the door.
Half a moment later he reappeared and locked the door as silently as
he had unlocked it. Darting swiftly into his room, he switched on the
light and drew something from his pocket, examining it swiftly. His
eyes glittered, and he again snapped off his light and undressed in the
darkness, carefully stowing away the object in his coat pocket.
“A thousand dollars in cash!” he murmured, as he crept into bed. “Pop,
if you could only see me now!”