NOT ON THE PROGRAM.
Over their shoulders, Lenning and Guffey caught sight of Merriwell
making his way toward them. They exchanged hurried words, and Guffey
turned from Lenning and started to leave the field around the lower end
of the grand stand.
Frank quickened his pace a little. Lenning walked hurriedly toward
Frank. He was plainly nervous and worried, and his shifty eyes held a
harassed look.
“Where’s Guffey going?” Merry inquired, when Lenning was close enough
to hear.
“He’s sick and is going around back of the stand to lie down,” was the
answer. “He’s subject to spells with his head, and he’s got a bad one
coming on now. He’ll be back before the last half’s over.”
Merriwell went on. Lenning watched him with growing suspicion.
“Are you going after him, Merriwell?” he asked.
“I want to talk with him,” Frank replied indefinitely.
“He’s in no shape to talk. He——”
But Merriwell, by then, was out of earshot. The call for the second
half was ringing down the field. Lenning hesitated, as though inclined
to follow Merriwell; then, tossing his hands with a desperate gesture,
he whirled and ran to take his place with the rest of the Gold Hill
team.
When Frank had worked his way past the lower end of the grand stand, he
half started toward the dressing rooms. But he checked the move, for
Guffey, as he could see, was traveling north across the sandy stretch
of ground on that side of the club premises.
Lenning had misstated the case. The Gold Hill coach may have been
having “a spell with his head,” but he was not bound for the dressing
rooms to lie down. On the contrary, he was striding briskly off into
the open, apparently bent on getting as far away from the football
field as possible.
Merriwell chuckled grimly. He had thought that a maneuver of this kind
would be attempted.
What he had said about the half dollar had certainly worked upon
Guffey’s suspicions; and then, the suspicions must have been
intensified when Guffey saw Frank talking with Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff.
Undoubtedly the Gold Hill coach thought that a plan was forming to put
him under arrest for stealing the thirty dollars. In order to avoid
such a result, Guffey’s best plan, of course, was to get himself out of
the way. This, very likely, was what he was attempting to do.
Guffey, casting a hurried look behind him, saw Merriwell. He began to
run.
“Hold up, Guffey!” Merry shouted. “Don’t be in a rush.”
But Guffey was attending to a matter of pressing importance. If
overtaken, a jail would yawn to receive him; on the other hand, if he
succeeded in making his escape from Merriwell, he would perhaps receive
the benefit of a doubt in the matter of that thirty dollars. Instead of
halting, he increased his pace to the limit.
There must have been some exciting work going forward on the football
field. The roar of the spectators mounted high, and never for a moment
were grand stand and bleachers entirely quiet. The noise lessened as
Merriwell and Guffey drew farther and farther away.
Merry, it was soon demonstrated, was a faster runner than Guffey, for
at every stride he was gaining upon him. It was presently evident, too,
that Merry was also a better jumper.
Ahead of Guffey lay an eight-foot irrigation ditch, filled to the brim
with flowing water. The Gold Hill coach attempted to take it at a leap,
but he took off too soon; then, on top of that, his foot slipped as he
sprang into the air. It happened, therefore, that instead of landing
safely on the opposite bank, he dropped squarely into the water.
For a moment he was under the surface, and all that was to be seen was
his cap, floating away with the sluggish tide. Frank jumped the ditch
and stood waiting on the opposite bank.
Guffey bobbed up, thoroughly drenched, and sputtering. Seeing
Merriwell waiting for him, he turned to reach the other bank. To his
astonishment—and somewhat to Merriwell’s, as well—Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff, appeared abruptly and headed him off in that direction.
“What are you chumps trying to do?” sputtered Guffey.
“Tryin’ to git hands on you, Guffey,” answered Hawkins, with a grin.
“If you think you’ve been in long enough, why not come out? Jumpin’
sand hills! What’s the matter with your hair?”
This was a question which Frank had been asking himself. The water had
played sad pranks with Guffey’s jet-black hair. In spots the black had
all run out of it, and had streaked his pale face, leaving a tow color
in place of the dark hue that had previously distinguished the looks.
With a yell of consternation, Guffey put up his hands to his face and
then withdrew them and looked at his smudged fingers.
“It ain’t right for a young feller to go dyin’ his hair that-a-way,”
said Hawkins. “Come on out. I shouldn’t think it would be comfortable,
stayin’ in there too long.”
“I’ll come out,” said Guffey savagely, “but you can’t arrest me for
taking Merriwell’s money.”
“That’s it, eh?” chuckled the deputy sheriff. “I thought you’d done
something to Merriwell that wasn’t exactly honest.”
“He stole thirty dollars from me,” said Frank. “He’s got a pocket piece
of mine in his clothes, right this minute, and that was part of the
stolen money. He furnished it for the toss, at the beginning of the
football game, and I had a good look at it.”
“A fellow in Gold Hill worked that off on me,” said Guffey.
“He did, eh?” answered Frank grimly. “Then why didn’t you show the
half dollar to me when I asked you? Why did you hand me another half,
instead?”
“I did that by mistake,” was the lame excuse.
Guffey had splashed out of the ditch, and, dripping and forlorn, was
standing close to Hawkins.
“We’ll let that part go, for the present,” said Frank. “Your real name
is Billy Shoup, and not Sim Guffey. If you will tell all you know about
that forgery, and the way you manipulated matters so as to make Ellis
Darrel appear guilty, we’ll drop the robbery matter. What do you say?”
Guffey stood like a man in a trance. When he finally recovered speech
he persisted in declaring that he was Guffey, and had never heard of
the man called Shoup.
“What you need, Guffey,” grinned Frank, “is a change of heart. Maybe
that will come to you with a change of clothes.”
He turned to Hawkins.
“Take charge of him, Hawkins,” he went on. “Take him to the Ophir
House, and stay with him until I come. He knows all about that forgery
business, and can clear Ellis Darrel. He’ll do it, too, or he’ll be put
in jail for stealing that money from me.”
“I’ll hang onto him,” said Hawkins, “don’t fret about that. Come on,
Guffey—or Shoup—whichever it is.”
Guffey walked meekly away with the deputy sheriff, trailing little
streams of water behind him as he went. Frank hastened back to the
football field, arriving just as Brad made the only touchdown of the
game, and in the last five minutes of play.
Bedlam was let loose. All the Ophir partisans rushed into the field,
caught their winning team up on their shoulders, and raced the entire
eleven around the cinder track. Never before had Ophir experienced a
day like that.
There were many shouts for Merriwell, but Merry was in the clubhouse.
Hawtrey had caught him by the arm and hustled him to a place where they
could have a few words in private.
Very briefly Frank told the colonel what had transpired in the vicinity
of the irrigation ditch. The colonel’s face brightened wonderfully.
“I could have sworn it!” he exclaimed delightedly. “We’ll pick up
Ellis and Jode and get to the hotel as soon as we can. I’m going to
settle this affair now, once and for all. Wait here, Merriwell, till I
find the others; then we’ll see how quick we can get to town.”