GETTING THE EVIDENCE.
Merriwell was not disposed to be at all considerate of Jode Lenning.
Into Merry’s mind, again, came those ugly suspicions of the favorite
nephew.
It was conceivable that Lenning, jealous of his half brother, had
plotted to have him cast off and set adrift, just as he had, Merriwell
felt sure, engineered that robbery plot against him. What had caused
the accident on the cliff still remained a mystery; yet, terrible as
that accident had been, if the result of a plot, then the plot was less
heinous than the one by which it had been made to appear that Ellis
Darrel was a forger. Through the first, life might have been lost; but,
through the second, honor, which men of integrity hold dearer than
life, hung in the balance.
The blood ran hot through Merriwell’s veins as all these thoughts
trooped through his mind. Here was a chance to do something for
Darrel, was the idea that filled him, to the exclusion of anything and
everything else.
Taking his place on the field, opposite Lenning, Merriwell strove to
note the exact place where the note from Bleeker had been stowed. His
eyes, peering hawklike from either side of the rubber nose guard,
sought the lacings of the other guard’s jacket. Between two of the
crossed thongs he believed he caught a flash, the merest flash, of
something white. Then, while Merriwell’s brain was still lashed with
those ugly suspicions of Lenning, the playing began.
Ophir ran the kick-off back a bare seven yards. Line plunges, during
which Merry sought in vain for a chance at that scrap of white, netted
another gain of four yards. Then, as in some weird dream, Merriwell
found himself crouching in the middle of the line, staring into the
face of Lenning, with its shifty eyes and its overtopping mop of black
hair. The swaying lines locked and clashed as the ball flew out of the
scramble and into the arms of the Gold Hill half back.
Merry plunged forward in an attempt to break through. Lenning threw out
a leg to trip him. Merry’s hands pawed at the jacket as he went down,
but he was up again in a flash with something clutched in his fist.
“You’re not so much!” snarled Lenning.
Merriwell laughed. He could afford to. The evidence was in his
possession now.
The playing went on, and gradually Merriwell began to take more
interest in the battle and less in the scrap of evidence which had come
into his hands.
Ophir had the ball and was going down the field with it, five yards
through tackle, five more stolen through the guard, and then five more
around the end. A tackle run netted ten yards, and a forward pass
twenty, Brad grabbing the ball on a perfect throw.
Gold Hill’s confidence was oozing away steadily. Her men were rattled,
and Clancy and Dunn and Ballard were doing their utmost from the side
lines to make their confusion more complete. Before Ophir’s attack, the
Gold Hill line slumped and gave way.
And then, when close to Gold Hill’s goal, Mayburn lost the ball on a
distressing fumble. That nearly broke the center’s heart. Hawtrey hung
over the scramble as the players disentangled themselves, and it was
discovered that a Gold Hill man had the ball.
“Somebody kick me!” wailed Mayburn. “Oh, what a bobble!”
Gold Hill had no use for a scrimmage at that stage of the game, and
immediately lifted the pigskin into safer quarters. Both sides were
still without a score when, a few minutes later, the quarter ended.
Merriwell had smothered his desire to do his best. Ophir, he knew, had
outplayed Gold Hill, and it was better for all concerned that there
should be no scoring. On the face of it, the teams might be called
evenly matched. As for the rest of it, the game Merriwell had played
within the game had been entirely successful.
The best of good feeling prevailed. It was much easier for the right
spirit to manifest itself over a scoreless game than if one side or the
other had made a touchdown or had kicked a goal.
Led by the colonel, the Gold Hill fellows collected in a group and
cheered the Ophir team, while Ophir, with Handy and Merriwell leading,
returned the compliment for their opponents.
“This,” beamed the colonel, taking Merriwell and Handy off to one
side, “starts our series of friendly competitions, and leaves nothing
to be desired. I have enjoyed myself this afternoon, and it has been
a pleasure to me to notice the utter absence of anything like ill
feeling. Keep up the good work, boys. I’ll have to leave you now, for I
want to get on my horse and ride over to the other camp. Jode and his
teammates will make the trip ’cross country.”
Merriwell and Handy walked with the colonel to the camp. As he was
about to mount his horse for the ride to Camp Hawtrey, the colonel
turned and gave Merry his hand.
“I wish that some day you might come to town with Jode and have dinner
with me,” said he. “I should esteem it a great pleasure, Merriwell.”
“Thank you, colonel,” Frank answered, “but I’m afraid I shall be too
busy here to accept many social invitations.”
“You won’t forget to take the Ophir boys over to the other camp?”
“They can look for us over there almost any day.”
“Good!”
He swung into his saddle, waved his hand, and started at a gallop down
the gulch.
“We could have scored,” mourned Handy, “we ought to have scored.
Mayburn——”
“I’m glad he fumbled,” interrupted Frank. “As I told the boys before
they went on the field, I wasn’t eager to have them win, but I was more
than eager to have them keep Gold Hill from winning. We outplayed them,
and that’s enough.”
“You got into it yourself in order to study the other team at close
quarters?”
“That wasn’t my idea exactly,” Frank answered, “although the experience
will probably be a help. Come on,” he added, suddenly shifting the
subject, “and let’s take our plunge in the pool.”
Ballard and Bradlaugh were feverishly eager to have a few words in
private with Merriwell. The opportunity did not offer until some time
after Merriwell had had his swim and had got into his clothes; then, as
he walked toward the camp, Ballard and Bradlaugh and Clancy joined him.
Already Ballard had confided to Clancy, Merriwell’s real reason for
getting actively into the football game.
“Did you win out, Chip?” asked Bradlaugh.
Merriwell nodded, and slapped his pocket.
“What’s the evidence?” queried Ballard. “Does it clear Darrel?”
“Haven’t looked at it yet,” was the reply.
Astonished exclamations came from the other three.
“Don’t mean to say you haven’t had time?” Clancy asked.
“I’ve had the time, Clan, but not the inclination. We’ll let Darrel
look at the note first. Maybe,” and Merry grew thoughtful, “I jumped
into this thing too quick. Suppose Hotchkiss was wrong? Suppose there’s
no evidence in the note about the forgery? If that’s the case, I’ve
done a measly trick.”
“You were justified in getting that note, Chip,” declared Ballard,
“just on the strength of what I told you.”
“I hope so,” said Frank, “but that’s a thing we’ll leave to Darrel.
Shall we ride down the cañon this afternoon?”
“I’ve got to go back,” returned Ballard, “and you fellows might as well
go with me.”
Without delay, they started to get their horses ready. Half an hour
later they were speeding along the narrow cañon trail in single file,
Merriwell hardly knowing whether he ought to feel elated or depressed
over his exploit on the football field.
The high ideas of honor, inculcated by his father, would not have
pardoned his afternoon’s work unless it set right the great wrong that
had been done Ellis Darrel. Merriwell felt that, in his eagerness to
help his new chum, he might have committed a deed which he would later
regret. He had acted on the impulse of the moment, and with implicit
faith in what Ballard had repeated as coming from Hotchkiss.
A fine point of ethics was involved, and Merriwell believed that no
eyes save Darrel’s should read the note unless it was really found to
have an important bearing on Darrel’s affairs.