A STRONG CASE.
Dick Merriwell, stunned as he was by the news that Bowen had brought
him, did not for a moment believe that Jim Phillips was guilty of the
charge made against him. But he recognized that it was a serious matter,
and one that must be investigated without delay. Bowen’s protest had
been eminently reasonable, and Yale could neither ignore it nor refuse
to disqualify Phillips. The evidence presented was all against him, so
far, and Dick understood that he must at once proceed to gather some
witnesses who could testify in favor of the accused pitcher.
His first step, taken even before informing Jim of the charge, was to
find Chetwind, the country club member who had supplied Bowen with
confirmation of the anonymous charge against Jim. He knew Chetwind, not
very well, but well enough to go to him direct, and he went at once to
the office of the principal witness in the case, as he already regarded
him. Chetwind was a real-estate broker, and no time was wasted when Dick
was ushered into his private room.
“I can guess why you are here, of course, Merriwell,” said Chetwind,
raising a distressed face to Dick. “What Bowen has, I suppose, told you
is true. I was told that Phillips would not consent to pitch for us
unless he received a hundred dollars in cash, and, being anxious to win
the game, I put up the money myself, and sent it to him in a registered
letter. Here is the receipt.”
“Have you a witness to the fact that there was a hundred dollars in the
letter?” asked Dick.
“Yes,” said Chetwind. “The clerk at the post-office saw me put the
money—two fifty-dollar bills—in the envelope. I then sealed it and
handed it to him.”
Certainly that looked very bad. Dick had seized upon the thought that
the letter might not have contained money at all, but Chetwind’s witness
banished that hope.
“Who told you that Phillips wanted money to play on the team?” asked the
universal coach then.
“That I cannot tell you,” said Chetwind firmly.
“Consider this matter seriously,” said Dick. “I’m not going to say
anything about your own dishonorable action in trying to introduce a man
you thought was a professional into an amateur game. But here is a man,
a student of your own college, accused of a serious offense, that will
hurt not only him, but Yale. Have you the right to withhold any facts
that may clear up the case?”
“I don’t think I am doing anything of the sort, Merriwell,” said
Chetwind. “You need say nothing about my own action. I realize fully how
dishonorable it was, and I was sorry the moment I had agreed to do it.
But I don’t see how it would help you for me to break my promise of
secrecy to the man who conducted the negotiations between Phillips and
myself. You have evidence that Phillips received the letter, and
evidence, too, to back mine, that it actually contained a hundred
dollars.
“If Phillips can explain that away, or can show that there is any reason
for me to break my promise, I will do so, rather than permit any
injustice to be done. But I don’t think it’s possible for that to
happen. It looks like a clear case to me—and, in a way, I’m glad it’s
come out. It will ease my mind to know that others know of my own dirty
work. I’ll never engage in anything of the sort again, I can assure
you.”
“Repentance is a good thing,” said Dick, “but it’s better still to keep
straight. Then you won’t have anything to repent of afterward. I think
you come out of this pretty badly. This man you are shielding is
obviously a shady character, and, as such, not worthy of being shielded.
You’ve done a mighty wrong thing. I think you ought to do all you can to
set it right, instead of suddenly getting conscientious about your
promise to your fellow conspirator.”
“That’s pretty strong language, Merriwell,” said Chetwind, flushing. “It
isn’t going to make me any the more likely to do what you want, I can
tell you. It’s up to Phillips to prove that there’s been some mistake
here. If he can do that, I’ll help him, even to the extent of giving
away the man who approached me. Until I see some reason to do so,
however, I’ll keep my promise. My word has always been good, and it is
good now.”
“You’ve got a curious conscience,” said Dick angrily. “It seems to work
just about when and how you want it to. Good day.”
He could not trust himself to stay there any longer. Convinced, as he
was, that Jim was innocent, it was hard for him, at first, to realize
that others, who did not know the sophomore pitcher as well as he, would
be much more likely, on the evidence so far produced, to think him
guilty.
From Chetwind’s office, Dick made his way to Jim’s room. To him, first
explaining that he was sure that he was innocent, despite the appearance
of the case, he told the whole story, beginning with Bowen’s visit.
“I never even heard of this man, Chetwind,” exclaimed Jim angrily. “I
certainly received no letter from him, registered or otherwise. The only
registered letter—hold on, I’d forgotten.”
Jim had suddenly remembered the curious episode of which he had spoken
to Bill Brady, which had never entered his mind since their drive out to
the country club the previous day. Breathlessly, he told Dick of the
second registered letter he had fancied was there, but which, when he
came to look for it, had vanished.
“Of course, I couldn’t be sure,” said the coach, deep concern in his
voice now, “but I certainly was obliged to think that that receipt was
signed by you. The first explanation that came to me was that there had
been no money in the letter, and that Chetwind was lying. The second was
that the money had been some he owed you, and that he was still lying.
Where is the letter, if you signed for it?”
“I must have dropped it here in the room,” said Jim. “I’ll look.”
But the most thorough search that he and Dick could make brought them no
trace of the missing letter, which now loomed so important in the
discussion. Jim’s landlady was called up, but she had seen nothing of it
when she cleaned his room, and the one servant of the house, who was
absolutely trustworthy, professed an equal ignorance.
“Could you have dropped it outside?” asked Dick.
“I don’t see how I could,” said Jim. “I put all the letters I got that
morning in my pocket, and didn’t take them out until I was in the
carriage with Bill Brady. I told him about thinking I had seen a second
letter, and we looked in the wagon. But it wasn’t there.”
“You told Brady about it, eh?” said Dick. “That’s good.”
The next step was to find Brady and see if he could throw any light on
the missing letter, which had assumed such great importance in the case.
“You can see how it is, Jim,” said Dick Merriwell. “I don’t say that you
were to blame in any way. It may have been pure accident, and something
that you couldn’t avoid, that resulted in the disappearance of that
letter. But it’s got to be found. If it isn’t, and you simply say you
didn’t receive it, how will we look? They’ll produce the receipt that is
signed by you—always assuming that you did sign it, which we will soon
find out—and say that you are naturally denying the receipt of the
money. But your denial wouldn’t be accepted as proof by people who don’t
know you, against the positive evidence of that receipt. That’s the
thing that makes the whole thing look so bad and so difficult.”
Brady, furious at the idea of such a charge, was slow in becoming calm
enough to try to remember what had happened. Then, however, he recalled
what Jim had said about the second letter he thought had come to him.
“You didn’t have it while you were with me,” he said positively. “And
you didn’t drop it while you were coming out of the house, either. You
remember that Carpenter was with you, and I was surprised, because I
didn’t think that you and he were friendly. So I was watching you more
closely than I would have done as a rule.”
“Carpenter?” said Dick Merriwell, puzzled. “I don’t think I know the
name. Who is he?”
Brady, whose dislike for Carpenter was well known to most of his
classmates, gave a highly unflattering portrait of the man, whose
aspirations to lead the class in scholarship Jim Phillips seemed likely
to block.
“Was this Carpenter in the habit of coming to see you?” he asked Jim
then. “Was he a friend of yours?”
“No, I wouldn’t say he was a friend of mine,” said Jim, manifestly
unwilling to say a bad word of one of his classmates. “I always supposed
he hadn’t much use for me. He doesn’t go in for athletics, and goes
around saying that they’re a waste of time. I think, too, he got rather
sore when he wasn’t at the head of the class in two or three courses
he’d worked specially hard in.”
“Oh, go ahead and say it, Jim,” cried Brady impatiently. “He’s had it in
for you all year, and he and Shesgren and that crowd of grinds have been
telling every one who would listen to them that all the professors here
thought more of athletes than of students, and would favor them in
examinations every time.”
“Is that so?” asked Dick gravely, of Jim.
“It’s a bit exaggerated, I guess,” said Jim, smiling, “but I have heard
something of the sort. I’ve never taken much stock in it, though.
Fellows are apt to talk that way when they’re a little excited, but they
don’t usually mean more than half they say.”
“Well, there’s no light here, anyway,” said Dick. “We’ll go down and
make sure of that registered-letter receipt. Come along, Bill. You know
Jim’s handwriting, too. But keep cool, and don’t start any trouble with
this fellow Chetwind. He’s a pretty poor specimen, but he’s convinced
himself that he’s doing the right thing—and, so far as I can see, I
think he’s right.”
The receipt, when Jim and Brady examined it, left no room for doubt. It
had certainly been signed by Jim. Brady recognized his writing, and Jim
himself, without the slightest hesitation, identified it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------