THE TRIUMVIRATE CONSPIRES
They talked it over that evening in Loring’s room. Since Lemuel John
was on hand for a game of chess he was made a party to the conference,
but his verbal contributions were few. The Triumvirate was unanimous as
to two things. These were, first, that the Camel, as they called the
unknown youth for want of a better appellation, was attending Wyndham
practices for the purpose of obtaining information which, passed on to
the Wolcott football team, might prove of aid to the latter along about
the twenty-second of the month; and, second, that such espionage was
unsportsmanlike and deserving of severe condemnation. Of course, they
didn’t put it just like that, but that’s what they meant. I have used
my own phraseology rather than theirs that the gentle reader may be
spared the shock of certain uncouth expressions.
Having agreed that the thing was undesirable from the Wyndham
standpoint they discussed measures for suppressing it. The discussion
caused the postponement of the chess game until after study hour, and
after study hour it caused a second postponement until the following
evening. But before they parted for the night they had reached a
solution of the problem, said problem being: How’ll we get the guy and
pin it on him? Whether or not to report the matter at its present stage
to the coach or the manager or the captain, or to all of them, was
threshed out at length. Clif was for putting the affair up to Mr. Otis
and letting the latter take whatever steps he thought proper. Tom was
opposed. Tom pointed out that, while it was practically certain that
the Camel had been spying on the team, it was yet to be proved that the
Camel was a student at Wolcott or was performing his stunt with the
approval of the rival school. “Let’s find out who he is first,” advised
Tom reasonably. “He may be just a plain nut and have no connection at
all with Wolcott. Of course we all know that Wolcott’s the poorest
apology for a prep school in the country and that fellows who go there
are thieves, murderers and pickpockets, but, aside from that, they’re a
fairly decent lot over there and I don’t believe that the coach or any
one connected with football affairs would try to put over anything as
low down as this.”
Lemuel John made his first suggestion of the evening. “Guess the best
way to do would be to follow him and see where he goes to,” he drawled.
“If you nabbed him and asked questions he might lie.”
“Might?” said Clif. “Would, you mean! Well, maybe you’re right, Tom.
Only, if we find that the Camel really is spying here and tipping off
the Wolcott football crowd, I say we’ve got to tell Mr. Otis.”
“Of course,” agreed Tom, “when we know anything. But we don’t yet. If
Wattles had only got the number of the car――”
“He said it was too dirty to read,” said Loring. “Besides, it isn’t
likely the fellow owns the car. He probably rents it. Wattles says it
was just a rattle-trap, anyway.”
“Say, how about Wattles?” asked Clif. “Couldn’t he follow the fellow
and see where he goes?”
“It ought to be one of us,” answered Loring. “Of course, it can’t be
me. I’ll tell you. Clif has a driver’s license, and can drive, too;
which isn’t always the case! If he could get hold of a car――”
“But I couldn’t get away from the field in time,” Clif objected.
“Wait a sec. Where’s that map I brought home? Thanks, Tom. Now look
here, fellows. Gather around. Here’s where he had the car this
afternoon. It isn’t likely that he leaves it the same place every time
he comes over here, but it’s safe to say he parks it far enough from
the school to avoid suspicion. Anyway, what he probably does do when he
starts back is to head over to this road here. What’s the name of it?
Or hasn’t it got any――”
“Treadwell Street,” said Clif, laying a finger on the map.
“All right. Well, he goes over here and then turns north, reaches Elm
Street here, jogs right, turns again here and gets to Stoddard Street.
Then he follows Stoddard about half a mile and comes out on the old
turnpike. After that he’s got plain sailing for three or four miles
and hits the state road at Gerson’s Corners. Then he’s only got to
follow the paved road right into Cotterville. The whole distance is
about twenty-seven miles, I guess, just a nice hour’s run in his little
flivver. Now if some one was waiting over here――” Loring put his finger
down where Stoddard Street and the turnpike met on the road map――“it
wouldn’t be any trick to keep him in sight. And if some one――Clif,
for example――had a car parked here on Stoddard Street near the corner
of the field it wouldn’t take but a few minutes to get out to the
turnpike. Then he could stop with his car headed north and pretend he
had a puncture or engine trouble or――”
“Painter’s colic,” suggested the irrepressible Tom.
“But wouldn’t he recognize me?” asked Clif doubtfully.
“I don’t think so. Not if you were in street clothes. And you could
pull your cap down pretty well and sort of keep your head turned.”
“‘Hink’ Connell’s got a false mustache,” said Tom, chuckling. “It’s
red, but――”
“Cut out the comedy,” said Loring. “Let’s get this thing fixed up
somehow before the gong rings. Hang it, if you fellows can’t take hold
of it I’ll trail him myself, in this chair, with Wattles chauffeuring!”
“I’m ready to try it,” protested Clif. “But I don’t see how I can get
away over there by the time the Camel does. I’ve got to get a shower,
change my street clothes, beat it across to the corner――”
“It might be a pretty close shave,” acknowledged Loring. “Still, the
Camel has to walk from the field to where his car is parked, start it
up and go nearly twice as far as you, Clif. Look here, wouldn’t Mr.
Otis let you off five or ten minutes early if you asked him to?”
“I dare say he would, but what’ll I tell him? And here’s another thing.
It’ll be an hour’s run to Cotterville and an hour’s run back. That
means that I’ll miss supper, probably. Besides, won’t faculty kick if
they find out?”
Loring questioned Tom with his eyes and Tom shook his head. “Search
me,” he said. “A fellow’s at liberty to cut a meal if he wants to, but
I’m not sure he’s supposed to be joy riding when he does it.”
“I don’t think the rules say anything about being outside the grounds
at supper time,” said Loring.
“Maybe not,” remarked Clif pessimistically, “but that wouldn’t mean a
thing if they didn’t like it. They’d make a rule.”
“I’d do the job if I could drive a flivver,” said Lemuel John.
“So would I,” said Loring. “Seems to me, Clif, you can think up more
objections――”
“Oh, shut up! All right, I’ll do it. I’ll get that trick flivver we
went out to the boat races in last spring. I guess he will let me have
it if it’s still alive. But, listen, wouldn’t it be a sell if the Camel
didn’t turn up to-morrow?”
“That’s so,” said Loring. “And I don’t believe he does come every day.
At least, I haven’t noticed him more than two or three times a week, I
suppose. That’s a complication, isn’t it?”
“You arrange for the flivver in the morning,” advised Tom. “If the
Camel shows up some one――Wattles maybe――can pass the word to have the
car brought up from the village and left there at the corner. If the
coot fools us to-morrow he will probably be on hand the next day.”
Clif nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ve got to own up, though, that
I haven’t got much enthusiasm for the business. I have a hunch that
we’re going to fall down on it somewhere.”
“Well, we can try,” said Loring. “If we can’t make it go the first time
we can try again, I guess.”
“What! Now look here! I’m not going to――to spend the rest of the month
doing this Paul Revere stunt! I’ll try it once, but after that it’s
some one else’s turn.”
“Don’t be a piker,” said Tom. “You’re doing it for the dear old school,
aren’t you? And the dear old team? Really, Clif, you’re not showing the
proper spirit!”
“I’ll show you a punch in the jaw,” growled Clif. However, he didn’t
look as if he quite meant it, and Tom failed to show apprehension. The
return of Wattles from the West Hall library presaged the gong, and the
visitors arose to depart.
“Sorry about our game, Parks,” said Loring.
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered the big chap. “This other thing’s been
right interesting.”
“Well――oh, by the way, you’ll keep it under your hat, eh?”
“Eh?” asked Lemuel John. “Oh! Sure, don’t you worry. I’ll keep the old
trap shut tight, Deane.”
Wednesday started in with a drizzle that persisted until nearly noon.
However, the gridiron, although moist and a bit slippery, was usable by
three-thirty and the sun was out to do its bit. Loring didn’t pay his
call on the Scrub that afternoon, but followed his custom of spending
practice time at the end of the first team bench. Coach Otis looked
more than usually grim to-day, and those who were well acquainted with
his moods predicted a strenuous afternoon. With the Horner Academy game
coming in three days it doubtless behooved the coach to make the most
of his opportunities to-day and to-morrow. Horner was a much respected
opponent. She had a disagreeable habit of beating the Dark Blue about
every other year on an average, and, although she had performed that
feat last fall and it might well be considered Wyndham’s turn to
conquer, there was a feeling that Saturday’s game might prove the
hardest encounter of the season and even put an end to the prevalence
of those blue-and-white buttons. The fact that this year’s game was to
be played at Horner had a bearing on the outcome, too, for Horner was
a long railroad journey away and the team had to start before seven
in the morning in order to reach the New York village in time for
luncheon. Such a trip is more or less of a handicap to the team that
makes it, and there were plenty of doubting Thomases around Wyndham
just now.
Mr. Otis started the afternoon’s proceedings with long sessions at the
tackling dummy for both Squads A and B, and Loring and Wattles were
left for awhile in possession of the bench. Even the onlookers lounged
across to the dummy to enjoy the sight of their fellows begriming
themselves with the nice moist soil. It was moist, too, for the rain
had collected in the recently spaded space across which the canvas
effigy traveled and brought the brown loam to the consistency of
mud-pie material. When the squads returned to the bench they looked a
sad lot!
Meanwhile Loring had been on the lookout for the youth with the funny
chin. The Camel, however, was not in the stand and Loring concluded
by the time that the audience dribbled back to the seats that he was
not coming to-day. Clif and Tom came over for a whispered conference
and Loring reported the Camel’s absence. Clif looked relieved, Tom
disappointed. Then, just as the two players were turning away, Wattles
leaned forward over Loring’s chair.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Wattles in the proper tones for a conspirator,
“but the――er――the young man’s there now.”
“Don’t all look together,” Loring warned. “Where is he, Wattles?”
“In the further section, sir. Fourth row from the top and next to the
post.”
“Right-o!” whispered Loring. “See him, Clif? It’s all right; he isn’t
looking this way.”
“So that’s the Camel,” murmured Clif. “Well, hanged if he doesn’t look
like one! What’s the matter with his chin, anyhow? Looks as if it was
made of putty. See him, Tom?”
“I see something,” said Tom cautiously, “but I’m not sure it’s real.
Say, don’t they have ’em queer over at Wolcott? Heck, fellows, that
dumb-bell hasn’t got sense enough to spy on a――on an ant’s nest!”
“You can’t tell,” said Clif. “Folks aren’t always as foolish as they
look, Thomas. You ought to know that.”
“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute! What’s that mean, eh? I never said
you looked foolish, no matter what I’ve thought, Clif. If――”
“Think you’ll know him when you see him in the car?” interrupted Loring.
“Yes, unless he hides that chin,” chuckled Clif. “All right, fellows,
Paul Revere rides at five o’clock!”
“‘One if by land and two if by sea,’” murmured Tom. “Summon the
chariot, Wattles.”
“Get a good five minutes start of him, Clif,” Loring advised. “Maybe
you can be taken sick or something, eh?”
“I’ll fix it,” answered Clif confidently. “You look after the flivver.
Tell him to have it down there by the end of those poplars at ten
minutes to five with the engine running, Wattles.”
“Very good, Mr. Clifton,” replied Wattles quite animatedly. “The car
will be there, sir.”
Mr. Otis’ voice summoned the players from the bench and Clif and Tom
hurried off. Loring turned to Wattles.
“On your way, old chap,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you, so don’t
hurry. Only be sure that fellow understands what he’s to do, Wattles.
Clif’s explained it all to him once, but he’s a sort of a dumb goof and
you’d better go over it again.”
“Oh, I’ll make it quite clear to him, sir,” said Wattles.
Whereupon, having set his black derby carefully in place and buttoned
his coat, he made off with unhurried dignity.