THE PROOF AGAINST RENWOOD.
“What’s this I hear, Scott?” cried Leon Bentley, rushing up to him as
he appeared at the academy that noon. “They say you practiced with the
team this morning. I was away--went to see my aunt over at Freeport
last night, and didn’t get back in time for school this forenoon. They
lie about you, don’t they? You didn’t practice with the team, did you?”
“What if I did?” demanded Don.
“Why, hang it! you said you wouldn’t--you said nothing could induce you
to! You gave me fits for going back.”
“Well, you’re not the only fellow who has a privilege to change his
mind.”
“Then you have?” gasped Leon. “I never thought it of you! After all
Renwood’s said, too! You’ll be chumming with him next.”
Scott’s face grew dark. “Let up on that!” he grated. “I won’t take it
from you! I hate him just as much as I ever did!”
“Well, they’ll kick me off the team now,” said Bentley. “You’ve helped
him carry out his plan to do that, anyhow. I never thought it of you,”
he again declared, with unspeakable reproach. “Anyhow, I’ll bet my
money on Highland, and I’ve got some to bet, too.”
As he made this statement, Leon produced a roll of bills, which he
flourished before Don, grinning triumphantly. The doctor’s son was
surprised to see so much money in the possession of Bentley, but he
made no comment, not a little to Leon’s disappointment.
“Why don’t you ask me where I got it?” he demanded. “My aunt’s been
keeping it for me, to make me a present on my birthday that comes next
Tuesday. She was going to get me a suit of clothes, shoes, hat and full
rig with it, but I got the old lady to cough it up to me and let me buy
my own stuff. If I can catch any suckers, I’m going to bet the whole
pile on Highland.”
“And I hope you’ll lose it!” exclaimed Don.
“That’s nice!” sneered Leon. “But I won’t. Highland will have a snap,
same as she did before, and it won’t make any difference if you are on
the team.”
“It’s not Rockspur I’m sore on,” declared Don. “It’s only that cad,
Renwood.”
“And still you’re going to play with him.”
“I have a reason for that. You know my father doesn’t suspect I left
the team, and I don’t propose to let him know it. He’s going to see the
game, Saturday.”
Leon whistled. “Oh, that’s your little game! Well, I didn’t think you’d
go back, even for that. What do you care if he does find out?”
“I wouldn’t have my father know I lied to him for anything.”
“What if somebody told him?” grinned Bentley.
Don had the fellow by the collar in a moment. “Don’t you dare peach on
me!” he hissed. “If you do, I’ll give you the worst thrashing you ever
had.”
“Oh, I won’t say a word!” promised the frightened fellow. “Don’t choke!
Ain’t I your friend? What’s the matter with you?”
“That’s all right,” said Don, releasing his hold. “But you want to
remember what I said. If it gets to my father in any way, and I find
out who caused it, I’ll do just what I said.” Then he entered the
academy.
“Oh, yes, I’m your friend!” whispered Leon, glaring after Scott with a
sidelong look and showing his yellow teeth. “I’m your friend just as
long as it’s any advantage to be. I don’t like you. You’re too ready
with your threats to thrash somebody.”
That night Don practiced with the team again, and, as Leon had
expected, Carter was given the position of left tackle, Smith played in
his original position on the right end, and Bentley was left off the
eleven. Leon left the field in a huff, and the boys did better work
after he departed.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Dennis Murphy, as Leon departed.
“Talk about yer hoodoos, begorra, he’s it.”
Don practiced with all the vim and vigor he could command, and during
the final brush with the scrub he particularly distinguished himself in
various ways.
When the boys left the field that night confidence had returned to
them in a great measure, and Sterndale praised them freely. There had
been nothing like a clash between Renwood and Scott, which had been
dreaded, and every one felt relieved.
Scott was invited to come round to the club-room that evening, but he
declined, saying it was necessary for him to study. However, he did
not do much studying, for, as he was alone in his room shortly after
reaching home, there came a signal he could not misunderstand. Some
small pebbles rattled against his window and a peculiar whistle sounded
below.
“Now, what the dickens does that fellow want?” muttered Don, half
resolved to pay no attention to the signal. Then, fearing his father
might discover Leon, he thrust up the window and called down, in a
guarded tone: “What are you prowling round here for?”
“I’ve got something to show you--something that you’ll like to see,”
replied the dusky form below. “Your old man’s gone out; I saw him go
five minutes ago. I have the absolute proof against Renwood.”
Don hesitated no longer, but hurried down to let Bentley in; and, a
few minutes later, the boys were together in Scott’s room, with the
window-shades tightly drawn.
“Now, where is your absolute proof?” demanded the doctor’s son,
eagerly. “I want to see it. How did you get hold of it?”
“It’s the tail end of a letter,” said Leon, “which I picked up under
Renwood’s desk, where he dropped it. I saw him drop it, too, and I
wondered if it amounted to anything. I hung round till he left after
school, and then I gobbled it. Here it is.”
He brought out a sheet of crumpled note-paper, on which there were
a few lines of writing in a clear, bold hand, and passed it to Don.
The page was numbered “3,” and the writing began in the middle of a
sentence. This was what Scott read:
“take no chances, so Highland must win again Saturday, and you must
tip me off to any particular weakness of the Rockspur team, as you
did before. I shall expect a letter from you Friday. Your friend,
P. W.”
“That’s it!” cried Don, exultantly--“that’s the proof! This is the last
of a letter to Renwood from Phil Winston, the Highland coach! Now, I
can show the fellow up to Dick Sterndale, for I’m going to take this
straight to him.”
“Hold on,” said Bentley, with a knowing grin. “You hadn’t better do
that.”
“Why not?”
“How are you going to satisfy Sterndale that the letter this came from
was sent to Renwood? Renwood’s name is not mentioned. He may simply
refuse to believe that fellow knows anything about it, and you’ll
simply balk yourself.”
“Well, what am I to do?” exclaimed the doctor’s son, after a moment
of silence. “Sterndale will have to believe it, that’s all. If he
doesn’t, he’s a bigger fool than I take him to be.”
“But we might just as well fix it so he can’t help believing, even if
he wanted to.”
“How can that be done?”
“Why, it’s dead easy. I’ve got some samples of Renwood’s handwriting
here, and I rather think I can get up a reply to that letter that will
fool anybody.”
“That would be forgery.”
“No more than the note you took to old Alden. Besides that, it would be
for a good purpose, so there wouldn’t be anything wrong in it. I tell
you, it’s the only way to do Renwood up good and solid.”
“What’ll you do with the letter after it’s written?”
“That’s where you come in. The fellows invited you down to the club
to-night. I want you to go down and drop the letter on the floor, where
it’ll be picked up by somebody besides Renwood. Whoever gets it will
have to read it to see what it is, which will give the whole thing
away. Will you do it?”
Don’s nature rebelled against such an act, and Leon saw he was wavering.
“Think what he’s done to you!” urged the tempter. “He’s covered you all
over with dirt. He’s made the fellows believe you slashed the suits and
destroyed the football. It’s your only chance to get even. Have you got
the nerve?”
“Yes!” grated Don. “Go ahead and fake up that letter. I’ll drop it
where it will fall into the hands of Sterndale himself.”
“Good!” laughed Bentley. “Mr. Dolph Renwood is as good as done for!
Bring on the paper, pen and ink, and watch your old side-partner do the
trick. The world is ours, and Renwood isn’t in it!”