Weaving the Web
Sandy Podder had a most distressing time of it, following his expulsion
from the school. He was filled with shame and humiliation at the public
disgrace. But far stronger than these emotions was the rage he felt at
Garry Grayson because of the latter's vindication. Sandy had thought
his scheme perfect. He could not see how it could slip a cog. Yet that
it had slipped was only too evident. Now he, Sandy, was held up to
public reprobation, while Garry was riding on the crest of the wave.
He cudgeled his brain to find the reasons of his failure. Had his
accomplices betrayed him? He dismissed this thought promptly. They
could not double-cross him without giving themselves away. They were
as deep in the mud as he was in the mire. All their interest lay in
keeping the secret.
Could it have been Jake? He had been so befuddled on that night at the
roadhouse that he could not remember clearly what had happened there.
But he had a dim recollection of boasting to Jake of what he and his
pals were going to do to Garry Grayson. He questioned Jake, but that
individual was blandly innocent.
"I know nuddings," he said. "Vot you dink, dot I gif such a good
customer de rinky-dink?"
The atmosphere in the Podder home did not contribute to Sandy's
comfort. His father was bitterly angry, and let no chance pass to
remind Sandy that he was a thorn in the flesh. He threatened to make
him go to work, a terrible threat to Sandy. His mother, too, was
exasperated at him and took no pains to hide it.
So about all the comfort that Sandy got was in consorting with his
pals, who were in equally bad case, Lent Stewart and Aleck Anderson. On
occasion Bixby joined them in their conferences. He was still a member
of the school, but terribly sore at having been barred from athletics
and thoroughly in sympathy with the trio, and his hatred of Garry was
almost as keen.
At first Aleck Anderson was inclined to be a little offish, for he had
an idea that Sandy had dragged him in unnecessarily, which was indeed
the fact. But Sandy falsified glibly and was backed up by Stewart.
"You don't think I'd go back on an old pal, do you?" he said
wheedlingly to Aleck. "Not on your life! Old Allen had the goods on
all three of us, though it keeps me awake nights wondering how he got
it."
"It doesn't matter how he got it," growled Aleck, mollified and
half-convinced by Sandy's statement and Stewart's corroboration. "The
fact is that he got it, and I haven't any use for postmortems."
"Well," said Sandy, "are we going to take it lying down?"
"Might as well lie down as stand up," returned Aleck Anderson
disconsolately. "We're licked, anyway."
"Come out of your trance," counseled Sandy. "I've got a bully idea to
get even."
"I hope it's better than most of your ideas," put in Lent ungraciously.
"The last one was a frost."
"Everybody flivvers once in a while," Sandy defended himself. "I never
noticed that you were such a much. But listen now. What would make that
swell-headed Garry Grayson feel worse than anything else?"
The others considered for a moment.
"To have Lenox beaten for the championship," replied Lent Stewart.
"Exactly!" agreed Sandy. "Now I've got a plan to make Lenox lose and
make Garry Grayson as sore as a boil, and while we're about it we can
pick up quite a pile of cash on the side."
"How are you going to do it?" asked Aleck unbelievingly. "Going to
break Garry's legs? Bixby already has tried to break his nose, but
didn't get away with it."
"No such rough stuff," replied Sandy. "I'm using my brains."
Lent Stewart grunted uncomplimentarily.
"That's what I said," declared Sandy, flashing a dirty look at his pal.
"Brains! Look here. Wimbledon is the big game, isn't it? We'll leave
out Bass Lake, for Lenox can win that with a team of cripples. But
Wimbledon is the team that Lenox has got to beat for the championship.
Am I right?"
The others nodded assent.
"Well then," went on Sandy, "the teams are pretty well matched as they
stand. It's a toss-up as to which will win. Now suppose that Wimbledon
got hold of Lenox's signals. What would happen then?"
His companions started violently as the idea hit them.
"Wimbledon would have a walkover," declared Aleck Anderson.
"She'd score all the touchdowns she wanted," agreed Lent. "There'd be a
slaughter."
"Sure she would!" affirmed Sandy, proud of the impression his dastardly
suggestion had made. "And if we put up all the money we could rake
together on Wimbledon, we'd cop off a pile. We couldn't lose!"
There was silence for a few moments, while the boys ruminated on the
possibilities involved in the scheme.
"But suppose we did offer Wimbledon the signals and they refused to
take them?" suggested Aleck. "They might do that, you know."
"Do you suppose we're going to call a mass meeting and offer them to
Wimbledon in public?" sneered Sandy. "We'll have to sound out some one
of the team, the one that would be likeliest to fall for it. Do you
know any of the members of the team?"
"I know them by sight, of course," replied Aleck Anderson. "But there's
only one of them that I know well enough to talk to. I met him on my
summer vacation. That's Bill Sykes, the captain of the team."
"Captain, is he?" said Sandy quickly. "Better and better! How is he
fixed--financially I mean?"
"Poor as a church mouse," relied Anderson. "He was working as a waiter
at the hotel where I was staying. He does some work during every
vacation to help support himself, and even helps the janitor a bit
around the high school during the school terms. But what has that got
to do with it?"
"It has everything to do with it!" replied Sandy jubilantly. "A few ten
dollar bills would make him open his eyes. We could give him a slice of
our winnings. And he needn't feel that he's doing anything wrong," the
rascal added with specious sophistry, "for he'd only be helping his own
school along. I tell you, Aleck, if you only put it to him right, the
thing's as good as done!"
They discussed the matter further, perfecting the details. Then they
parted, convinced that the scheme would work.
A couple of days later when they met again Aleck Anderson had a long
face, and the other conspirators saw at once that something had
happened.
"What's the matter?" queried Sandy anxiously.
"You look as though you had been to a funeral," commented Lent.
"I'm afraid our cake is dough," replied Aleck, as he sat down
disconsolately on a box in the Stewarts' garage, which was their usual
place of meeting.
"Why?" asked Sandy Podder. "Wouldn't Sykes fall for it?"
"I haven't had a chance to see him yet," replied Aleck. "No, it isn't
that. It's something that happened a little while ago when I was
walking with Ed Bixby."
"What was it?" fumed Sandy. "Get to the point. Has that boob been
spilling the beans?"
"Not on purpose; but I'm afraid he's done it just the same," explained
Anderson. "You see it was this way. I had just met him and we were
walking along, paying no attention to anybody. Then Bixby up and asked
me:
"'How about those signals, Aleck? Have you fixed it up with Wimbledon
yet?'"
"And just at that minute Mr. Phillips came around the corner and almost
bumped into us!"
A cry of consternation burst from the lips of his companions.
"Mr. Phillips!" groaned Lent.
"Did he hear what Bixby said?" asked Sandy, his face a yellowish-green.
"I'm afraid he did," admitted Anderson. "He was going to speak to us,
to say 'good afternoon' I suppose, but he stopped short with his mouth
wide open. Then he looked at us as though we were snakes or something
and marched on without saying a word. The game's up! We're done!"