A PLOT THAT FAILED
ALTHOUGH Reddy, in common with everyone else in the college, felt
jubilant over the gallant victory of the Blues, he relaxed not one jot
of his vigilance. Two days' rest was all that he allowed. By that time
Boyd had recovered from the injury to his knee, the strain of the
contest had largely abated, and the team was once more in a condition to
face the final test--the battle with the redoubtable "Greys" in New York
on Thanksgiving Day.
But other and more baleful eyes were fixed on the condition of the team.
Football is one of the cleanest games in existence, and few sports are
more free of gambling of every kind. Nevertheless, it is impossible to
control the actions of a few professional gamblers who grasp eagerly at
every chance to ply their trade. Naturally, the conditions of the
different teams are of vital importance to them, and they make it their
business, through spies and in every possible way, to be well informed
on the subject. And the big football games of this season were no
exception to the rule. The condition of every player was carefully
noted and kept track of, and it is safe to say that the gambling clique
had almost as accurate a line on these points as the different trainers
themselves.
During the practice games in the earlier part of the season the "Greys"
had seemed to have the "edge" on the other members of the "Big Three."
Consequently, they were picked by the poolmakers as the eventual
winners, and large bets, amounting in some cases to practically the
entire "bank roll" of the plungers, were placed on them to win.
But the "Blues" had of late been going at such a terrific pace that they
had a most excellent chance of winning the pennant. And when this was
accentuated by the splendid victory of the "Blues" over the "Maroons" it
threw the "sports" into a condition closely bordering on panic.
A week before the final game on Thanksgiving Day one of the most
unscrupulous of the gamblers decided that if he could not win as matters
then stood, he would have to resort to underhand methods to change them.
Accordingly, one evening he called a number of his henchmen about him,
and when they and other plungers of his own stamp had assembled at a
designated rendezvous, he broached his plan.
"Boys," he said, glancing from one to the other of the hard faces turned
toward him, "there's no use telling you of the hole we're in. You know
just as well as I do, I guess, that we stand in a fair way to lose about
all we've got on account of the 'Blue' team coming up the way it has
lately. And according to Donovan here, it's not just a flash in the pan,
either. It looks as though they had hit their stride and meant to keep
it up until the end of the season."
"You can lay a stack of blues on dat," here spoke up the individual
referred to as "Donovan." "Dose guys has got more pepper in dem dan a
Mexican stew. De way dey practice an' de way dey play sure has got me
scared stiff. I knows a snappy football team when I sees one, an' you
can take it from me dem guys has de goods, and plenty of dem."
"Well, you see how things stand," said their leader, when Donovan had
finished. "If we don't do something, and do it pretty quick, we'll be
cooked--hashed--done brown on both sides."
There were significant looks exchanged among his auditors, and at last
one of them said:
"Well, what's your plan? Do you think we could buy one of the 'Blue'
players? It would be worth our while to ante up something handsome, if
you think it could be done."
"No chanct in de world," spoke up Donovan disgustedly, "dey're all
straighter'n a string, an' I tink any guy what made a proposition like
dat to one o' them would need a ambulance mighty quick."
"That leaves us only one thing to do, then," spoke the leader; "if we
can't buy one of them, we'll have to steal one, that's all. We'll have
to pinch one of the players some way, and keep him until the big game is
over. Then we can let him go, and if we play our cards right nobody will
ever get on to who turned the trick."
If, as is altogether unlikely, there existed any lingering scruple among
those present at taking part in any such project, the thought of the
ruin impending over their heads quickly banished such thoughts. All that
remained to be discussed was which player should be kidnapped, and there
were various opinions on this point. But the voice of Donovan decided
the question.
"De best man we can crimp," he said, "is Henderson, de quarterback. He's
de guy what gives de signals, an' it will stand de whole bunch on deir
heads. Besides," with a crafty grin, "he ain't quite as big as some of
de other huskies, an' dere's no use makin' ourselves any more trouble
dan we got to."
"I'll provide a good safe place to keep him in," said Bloom, the leader.
"There's a place over Mike's saloon, on the outskirts of the town, that
will be just the thing, and there won't be any questions asked, either."
So the plans for kidnapping the unconscious Tom were finally settled and
disposed of.
Bloom immediately set about perfecting his plans. He realized that he
was confronted with a difficult problem. He knew that it would be
necessary for him to capture Tom at some time when he was not in the
company of his two comrades, and from what his spy, Donovan, had told
him, he knew that the three were seldom separated for any length of
time. But he finally evolved a plan, and without loss of time set about
putting it in action.
He secured the use of a powerful automobile, and put it in charge of one
of his trusted lieutenants. The man was carefully instructed in the part
he was to play, and was intrusted with a note that he was to deliver to
Tom at a certain time. Thus the trap was laid, and Bloom settled back to
wait for the proper time to spring it.
And fate seemed to play into his hands. Toward dusk of the Tuesday
immediately preceding Thanksgiving Day Bert and Dick had occasion to go
to town, and as Tom had some studying to do, they left him in his room
and set out on their errand.
This was the time for which the gambler had been waiting. His spies
immediately sent him word of the favorable condition of affairs.
Excitedly he slammed the receiver of the telephone on its hook and sent
word to the man in charge of the automobile. The latter immediately
cranked up his car, and a few minutes later the big limousine rolled
quietly up to Tom's dormitory. The driver, who was dressed in ordinary
chauffeur's garb, mounted the stairs to the entrance, and when his ring
was answered by the appearance of an attendant, requested him to deliver
a letter that he handed him to "Mr. Tom Henderson."
A few moments later Tom was interrupted in his studies by a knock on the
door of his room, and on opening it was handed an unstamped envelope.
Somewhat surprised, he drew forth a yellow slip of paper that proved to
be a telegraph blank. Tom read the words scrawled across it, in
careless, hasty writing.
"Dear Tom," the message read, "am in town just for one evening, and want
you to drop in and see me. I would visit you if possible, but have some
friends with me, and so cannot. Just to make sure of your coming I'm
sending my car for you. Please don't disappoint me." The letter was
signed "Dave."
"Why," thought Tom, "that must be Dave Rutgers. I should say I would go
to see him. I haven't laid eyes on the old sinner since I came to
college."
Crumpling the yellow slip into a ball, he flung it into a corner of the
room and hastily donned his coat and hat. As he was about to leave the
room he hesitated a moment, and started back. But after a second he
started out again, and slammed the door after him. "I'll be back in a
couple of hours," he thought. "Bert and Dick probably won't return much
before that, so there's no use writing a note telling them where I've
gone." With this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind, and
hurried down to the waiting auto. He stepped in, the chauffeur slammed
the door, and the big machine glided noiselessly away, at a rapid gait.
About ten o'clock that evening Bert and Dick returned, and on their way
to their room pounded on Tom's door. They received no reply, so
concluded that he must be asleep, and passed on.
But when they stopped at his room the next morning, as was their
invariable custom, and received no answer to repeated summons, they
began to feel uneasy.
"Perhaps he's stolen a march on us and gone down early," suggested Dick.
"Possible," answered Bert, "but more likely he's just 'playing possum.'"
As he spoke he seized the knob to rattle the door, and the door swung
open!
"Why, he's not in here," exclaimed Bert, as he gazed about the room;
"and what's more," he continued excitedly, "he hasn't been here all
night, either. It's easy to see that the bed hasn't been slept in."
"That mighty queer," said Dick uneasily. "Where do you suppose he can
have gone?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, I'm sure," said Bert. "He didn't say
anything to you about going anywhere, did he?"
"Not a word," said Dick, "and I think if he had expected to be away any
length of time he would have told one of us about it."
"Something might have come up unexpectedly," said Bert; "but then he'd
have left a note for us. I--but what's that over in the corner!" he
suddenly exclaimed, "looks as though it might be a telegram."
As he spoke he pounced on the crumpled ball that Tom had tossed there
the evening before, and hastily smoothed it out. Then he and Dick read
the words written on it.
"That explains why he went," said Bert when they had mastered its
contents. "But it doesn't explain where he went or why he didn't get
back before this." They gazed at each other a few seconds, and each saw
his own fears mirrored in the eyes of his friend.
"There's something wrong somewhere," declared Dick at length, "and it's
up to us to find out what."
"It looks that way," said Bert. Then he continued, "this isn't a regular
telegram, you see. It looks as though the person writing it had just
scribbled the message on the handiest scrap of paper he could find,
which happened to be this."
"It may give us a clue to the writer," said Dick, as a sudden thought
flashed across his mind; "there are several telegraph offices in the
town, and probably if we showed that slip in any of them we could learn
what office it came from. There must be some identifying mark on it.
Then the people in that office might be able to give us some clue as to
who wrote it."
"It's worth trying, anyway," said Bert after a brief consideration. "And
the sooner we start the better. I'm getting more worried every minute."
With all thoughts of breakfast forgotten, they hurried from the college,
and were not long in reaching the railroad depot where the main
telegraph office was located. They showed the slip to the operator,
asking him if he could tell them from what station it had been taken.
"Sure," he said, looking at a figure in the upper left-hand corner,
"that came from station 'D,' on the corner of Spruce and Elm Streets."
The boys thanked him and hurried out. The address the operator had given
them was nearly a mile away, and they broke into a run. As they went
along they noticed that the houses lining the streets began to wear a
very tumble-down aspect, and to thin out more and more.
"This is a rotten neighborhood," panted Bert; "we must be getting pretty
near the edge of the town."
They had almost reached their destination when, as they passed a
particularly ramshackle building with a saloon on the ground floor, they
became conscious of a terrific hubbub going on within. There was a sound
of shouting and blows, and every once in a while the whole crazy
building would fairly rock as some heavy body crashed against the walls
from within.
Even as Bert and Dick stood watching in amazement, a muffled shout arose
above the general uproar that they both recognized. "That was Tom's
voice for a million!" yelled Bert, and without another word the two
friends made a dash for the door that evidently led to the floor above.
Without hesitating to find out whether or not it was locked they crashed
against it. Their combined weight acted like a battering ram and the
door, torn from its hinges, fell inward. They rushed up the rickety
stairs in great bounds and, crashing through another door that barred
their way, found themselves precipitated into the midst of a fierce
struggle.
On the floor four men were locked in a deadly grapple. The meager
furniture of the room was splintered and broken, and the whole place
looked as though a cyclone had struck it. With a yell Bert and Dick
plunged into the struggle.
And now the odds were more even. Instead of three to one they were now
three to three, and the tide of battle began to turn. Bert and Dick tore
Tom's assailants away from him and he staggered to his feet. He was
battered and bruised, but still full of fight. "Come on, fellows, wade
into them," he shouted hoarsely. His tried and true comrades needed no
second bidding, and now began a battle compared to which the other
seemed mild. The three thugs who had been trying to overpower Tom were
brutal fighters, and withal were men of muscle. But it did not take long
to decide which side would win. The three friends, every fighting
instinct in them aroused, and the lust of battle hot within them, fought
with a fury and concentrated power that nothing could withstand.
Slowly they forced the thugs across the room, planting blow after blow
with deadly effect. Their opponents gave ground steadily, unable to
withstand the terrific punishment meted out to them. Suddenly the one
nearest the door made a dash for it, and the others followed suit. The
three comrades started in hot pursuit, but reached the street only to
see the last of their erstwhile antagonists disappearing around the
nearest corner, and Bert called a halt.
"No use chasing them," he said, when they had gotten their breath a
little. "They know the neighborhood and we don't, and the chances are
we'd never catch them. We licked 'em good and proper though, didn't we?"
"That was _some_ scrap, all right," said Dick with a long whistle, "and
we didn't get off scot free, either. My left eye feels as though a coal
wagon had fallen on it."
"It looks it, too," said Bert with a wry grin; "we're all marked up a
little, but I'll bet that bunch of roughnecks will remember us for a
little while to come. But how did they come to get you, Tom? Tell us all
about it."
Tom then told them about receiving the note, and getting into the
automobile. "After that," he said, "there's not much to tell. It was
dark, and I didn't notice what kind of a neighborhood that rascally
chauffeur was taking me into. After a while he stopped and opened the
door, telling me we had arrived at Dave's house. As I stepped out those
three 'bad men' jumped on me. One of them pressed a rag soaked in
chloroform over my face, and I went to sleep almost before I had a
chance to fight. When I came to I found myself in that room, with one
lowbrow on guard. I waited until my head cleared a little, and then I
sailed into him. The noise of the shindy brought up the other two, and
then the argument got pretty hot. There's no doubt but what they'd have
won the decision soon, too, if you fellows hadn't happened to butt in
just as you did. I couldn't have held out much longer against odds like
that."
"Yes, it is rather lucky," agreed Bert; "we weren't a minute too soon."
"How did you learn where I was?" inquired Tom.
Bert then told him how they had discovered the slip of paper containing
the note to him, and gave a brief outline of his and Dick's actions
after discovering it.
"Pretty good detective work," said Tom admiringly. "Sherlock Holmes
would better look out for his laurels."
Meanwhile they had been walking back toward the college, and with the
aid of a street car were not long in reaching it.
As they were crossing the campus, they met Reddy.
"For the love of Hivin," exclaimed the trainer, as he caught sight of
their swollen faces, "what in the world have you been doin' anyway? You
haven't been lambastin' each other, have ye?"
"Not exactly," said Bert, and then proceeded to give the trainer a
detailed account of the recent happenings. Reddy listened attentively,
and when Bert finished made no reply at once. After a thoughtful
silence, he said: "Well, it's something of a mystery, Wilson, but one
thing is certain--without Henderson the team would have been so crippled
that we wouldn't have had a chance in the world of winning, and I have
an idea that the bunch connected with Mike's place, where he was held
prisoner, have a pretty big interest in our winning or losing, in a
money way. And the two facts put together may come pretty near giving
the correct answer."
"I imagined it might be something of the kind," said Bert; "I wonder
what chance there is of bringing the scoundrels to justice."
"You'll bet we'll do everything possible," said Reddy grimly, "but now,
you'd better pack Henderson off to bed, and Trent had better put a bit
o' beefsteak on that damaged 'lamp' of his! This afternoon we start for
New York, and we want everybody fit."