AN UNSEEN WITNESS.
Parker lost no time in telling Foote about the confession that was in
Dick Merriwell’s possession. Bold as the football star had been in his
talk with the universal coach, he was far from being as easy in his mind
as he had been in his speech. He knew that the signed confession, as
long as Merriwell had it, was a constant menace to him. There was no way
in which he could escape the consequences if Dick chose to use it
against him. Carpenter, always a weakling, had been so terrified when he
found that Dick knew all he had done, that Parker’s hold upon him had
been completely lost, and Shesgren, as it had turned out, had never
really understood what was going on, and had deserted him as soon as he
got a hint of the real plot against Jim Phillips.
Foote heard the story with disgust.
“Just like you,” he said contemptuously. “That’s what you got for trying
to beat a man like Merriwell by yourself. He’s too clever for you, and
you ought to have known it before you started in. I wonder that you had
sense enough to keep them from recognizing you when you carried Phillips
off in Boston. That was a crazy stunt, anyhow. It’s a mighty good thing
for you he got away. If you’d kept him there until the game was over,
they would never have dropped the business until they had found out who
was responsible. It was only because it failed that they were willing to
let you off. That was one time when your foolishness was a good thing
for you.”
Parker was really frightened, and he stood Foote’s abuse without a word
of protest. He had realized that he could, unaided, do nothing against
Merriwell, and he was afraid to take a chance of causing Foote to turn
against him.
“I’ll have to get hold of that confession, of course,” said Foote.
“That’s for my own sake, as much as for yours. I may get more or less
mixed up with you, and if they feel like using that against you, it
might do me some harm. If I hadn’t made up my mind to work this thing,
though, I’d drop it right now. I’m afraid of you, Parker. You’ve made
such a mess of the business since you started in, that I don’t feel safe
with such a partner.
“I haven’t any idea of running any chances myself, but I can’t tell what
you’ll let me in for. You’ve got to promise not to make a move without
consulting me hereafter, and you’ve got to tell me everything you’ve
done, too. Look at this business of the confession. You didn’t tell me a
word about that registered-letter business, though I’d guessed that you
had something to do with it. I don’t suppose you’d have peeped about it
now if you hadn’t been frightened by this fellow Merriwell.”
Foote walked up and down the room, thinking hard, while Parker, who
really wanted to kick him out, waited anxiously.
“What sort of paper did you write that confession on?” he demanded
finally.
Parker went to his desk at once, and produced a pad of blue paper.
Foote’s face lighted up.
“Good business!” he said. “That’s such unusual paper that our friend
isn’t likely to have another piece just like it about his rooms. Now
fold a piece of that just the way your confession was folded—see?”
Parker obeyed.
“All right,” said Foote. “You’ll have to make up to Merriwell. That was
plain idiocy you showed when you saw him to-day—defying him openly. You
can’t do a thing against him in the open. Now, I want you to go to his
rooms, to-night. Apologize. Tell him you’re sorry that you acted the way
you have. Explain that you’ve thought it all over, and have decided that
he’s right. Carry this with you.”
He handed Parker the folded blue sheet.
“And look around. If you can manage to be alone in his room for a minute
or two, try to substitute this for the other paper. He won’t be apt to
look at your precious confession unless he thinks he’s going to need it,
and then he won’t be able to prove who took it.”
“I can’t bluff him into thinking I’m going to reform,” said Parker
sourly. “You said yourself he was too clever for me. He’ll see through
that in a minute.”
“No, he won’t,” said Foote, with assurance. “He’d see through anything
you could think up yourself, but he doesn’t think you’ve got sense
enough to think of trying to fool him that way, and he’ll believe you,
especially if you don’t slop over too much. You do as I say. But
remember, you’ve got to bring that confession back here or I’ll drop the
whole business.”
Parker growled, but obeyed. He took the blue paper, slipped it into his
pocket, and went off in search of Dick Merriwell. The universal coach
was in his rooms, and received him with perfect friendliness. But he
seemed a little surprised.
“I’ve come to say that I behaved like a fool to-day, Mr. Merriwell,”
Parker began ungraciously. “I was wrong all through, and I want to tell
you that I’ve made up my mind to take my medicine and do the best I can
to play on the team in the fall.”
The universal coach eyed him keenly. Dick, to tell the the truth, was
rather puzzled. He hated to distrust any one, and he had often proved
that when a man who had done wrong sincerely repented, he could count
upon his friendship and aid to keep straight afterward. Dick wanted to
think as well as possible of Parker, and to help him to undo the wrong
he had done to himself and to Yale, but it seemed to him that the
transition from the defiant, bullying Parker of the afternoon was a
little too sudden.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Parker,” Dick said finally. He had not
been able to glean much from his study of the football player’s face and
eyes. Parker was sullen in his appearance, but that was natural. He
might be sorry and ashamed, but still be embarrassed and sensitive.
“There’s room for all of us in Yale, and there’s plenty of work for all
of us to do. That’s why I was so sorry when it seemed to me that you
were putting your own desires and ambitions above the needs of the whole
college.”
“Well, I’m through with that,” said Parker.
His eyes had been wandering about the room, and protruding from a
pigeonhole in Dick’s desk, he had seen the edges of the hated blue sheet
on which he had written his confession. He could see it, but Dick was
seated at the desk himself, and there was no chance for Parker to
abstract it without detection. But his mind had a certain cunning,
though he was by no means as clever as Foote, and he evolved a plan for
getting the coach out of the room.
“I thought, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “that you might have a copy of the
changes in the football rules that were made at that last meeting in New
York. I wanted to study them a bit, and I’ve lost my copy.”
“I can help you out there,” said Dick, jumping up hastily. “I’ve got an
extra copy, and I’ll be glad to let you have it. Just wait a minute, and
I’ll get it for you.”
Dick went quickly into his bedroom. He welcomed this sign of a real
interest in the football team, the first which Parker had displayed, and
he was glad to be able to grant the junior’s request.
No sooner had Dick left the room, than Parker hastened over to the desk
and, quickly snatching out the blue sheet that was exposed, put it in
his pocket and substituted the one he had carried.
“That’s a good job,” he said to himself, with much inward satisfaction.
“He won’t look at that until to-morrow, and he’ll never be able to tell
how that paper was lost. And, gee! but it’s a relief to have that back!”
Parker was intently absorbed in his task—that of a sneak thief, had he
stopped to give himself time to think. So absorbed that he had forgotten
that the door was open. And he never noticed at all the sound of quiet
footsteps that had come up to the door as he made his way to Dick’s
desk. But the footsteps had been there. And they had been those of Jack
Tempest, the Virginian, who was one of Jim Phillips’ closest friends in
Yale.
Jack had seen the whole astounding performance. His first impulse had
been to rush in, seize Parker, and call to Dick. But he had been
learning caution and diplomacy. He made sure of what was going on, and
then, as silently as possible, passed on in the corridor outside the
room, until he was safe from observation. There he waited until, a few
minutes later, he heard Parker come out and pass down the stairs.
Tempest had not had to wait very long. Parker waited a very short time
after the return of Dick Merriwell, with the leaflet the junior had
asked him for, and he had gone down the stairs, whistling merrily, to
the intense indignation of Tempest. One reason, perhaps, that Tempest
was so angry was that Parker had selected as the tune he chose to
whistle, “Marching Through Georgia,” a song that still has the power to
anger Southern listeners, though it is nearly fifty years since Sherman
spread ruin and devastation as he swept with his army from Atlanta to
the sea.
Foote was still waiting when Parker returned.
“I got it!” cried Parker, holding up the blue sheet. “Pretty quick work;
what?”
“It was all right,” admitted Foote grudgingly. “I didn’t know whether
you’d have gumption enough—here, hold on! what are you doing?”
But he sprang toward Parker too late. The junior had torn the sheet into
a hundred pieces, delighted at the chance to get rid of the
incriminating evidence of his former conspiracy.
“What’s the matter with you?” cried Parker angrily.
“You blamed fool!” yelled Foote. “What did you tear that up for without
giving me a chance to look at it? How did you know it was the right
one?”
“Oh, shucks!” cried Parker. “Is that all? It’s the right one, right
enough. No mistake there. I suppose it would be nice for you to have
that. I guess I’d just about as soon let Dick Merriwell keep it as put
myself in your power by giving it to you.”
He leered at Foote, and the other had no answer, for it was with some
thought of being able to control Parker that he had planned to possess
himself of the paper.
------------------------------------------------------------------------