CHAPTER XLV.
THE PLUGGED “HALF.”
The noon meal at Dolliver’s was a light one, for Frank did not believe in football on a full stomach. The three big cars came along, promptly on time, and the lads crowded into them with their suit cases. They were a nervous lot of boys in spite of their efforts to be cool and confident.
Frank got into a front seat of the Bradlaugh car. Mr. Bradlaugh was driving.
“This outfit is looking mighty fit, I must say,” the president of the O. A. C. remarked, as he put the automobile in motion on the back track.
“The Ophir fellows are ready to make the fight of their lives,” Frank answered.
“Bully. About all of Gold Hill was piling into our club grounds when I left. They’re always a talkative lot and not too careful how they rag the Ophir players. We must all remember to take the joshing in good part.”
“You can depend on us to prove a credit to Ophir, Mr. Bradlaugh,” said Frank quietly.
“It does me good to hear that. Win or lose, Merriwell, let’s show the colonel and his crowd that we are true sportsmen. The colonel is always harping on that proposition, you know, so let’s give him an example of what it really means.”
“We will.”
The game was called for two-thirty, and it was two o’clock when the three automobiles trailed into the inclosure at the athletic field, trailed in single file across one end of the grounds and halted at the doors of the gym.
Grand stand and bleachers were swarming with people. The crowd overflowed the clubhouse balcony, filled a number of automobiles that nosed the fence beyond the side lines, and took up every available foot of ground that commanded a view of the gridiron.
Pennants were waving, handkerchiefs were being fluttered, and cheers were going up on every side. The arrival of Ophir’s champions was the signal for a bedlam of cheers that traveled across the field and back again in a tidal wave.
“They look good, but not good enough!” howled a Gold Hiller as the cheering lulled.
“You can’t produce anythin’ to beat ’em!” whooped a scrappy Ophir man.
“Hold yer bronks till the other crowd trots out!”
“We’ll hold our bronks, and our eleven’ll hold yore team to a fare-ye-well!”
“Wait an’ see!”
“Yes, wait!”
This was a sample of the cross-fire indulged in by the rival rooters. Cowboys and miners were among the partisans, on both sides, and they were of a class not given to undue restraint.
“Hawkins is on the ground with a force of helpers,” said Mr. Bradlaugh, as Merry climbed out of the car, “and if the good feeling happens to get strained I reckon the deputy can smooth it out.”
“If there’s any row,” said Frank, “it will be among the rough-necks. There’s no bitterness in our crowd. We’re going to win, and we know it. That’s all, Mr. Bradlaugh.”
“That’s enough,” laughed Mr. Bradlaugh, with an admiring glance at Merry as he trailed the Ophir fellows into the gymnasium.
Frank was not intending to get into the game himself, but as good substitutes were lacking, he had planned to hold Clancy and Ballard, along with a few of the best second eleven men, in reserve.
While the fellows were in the dressing rooms, getting out of their ordinary clothes and into their football togs, Chip sat in the big, bare exercise room, his head bowed in thought. Some one approached him from behind and touched his shoulder.
“Not gloomy are you, old chap?” asked a familiar voice.
Frank whirled and sprang up.
“Hello, Curly!” he exclaimed, his face flushing with pleasure. “Where the deuce have you been keeping yourself for the last few days?”
“Left Dolliver’s to go to Gold Hill on business, pard,” smiled Darrel.
The youngster’s face was pale and a little thinner than usual. His bandaged arm swung from his neck in a sling.
“I was badly disappointed when I did not see you at the ranch,” Frank went on, taking the other’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Finer than silk. A little wabbly on my pins, but that’s only temporary. I’m here to see the game, but I’ve been hanging around the gym to tell you that I don’t like the way this man Guffey sizes up. I’ve got some mighty strong doubts about him. When I heard a new coach had arrived in Gold Hill, and that Jode had signaled him to come I was filled with suspicions. That’s why I went over to the Hill. But the suspicions didn’t work out worth a darn. Yesterday I headed for Ophir.”
“What were the suspicions, Curly?”
“Never mind, now. I seem to be full of pipe dreams. Say, what do you think about Jode and the colonel? You know, of course, that Jode’s still king bee of the Gold Hill bunch. He’s got a stranglehold on the colonel, all right!”
A shadow crossed Darrel’s face. Through it showed disappointment and a little sadness.
“When I heard how your uncle had treated Jode, after that eye opener in the gulch,” Frank returned, “I had begun to think that the old colonel was in his dotage. But now I’ve changed my mind.”
“What caused the change?”
“A talk I had with the colonel last night. He came out to Dolliver’s purposely to have a word with me.”
Darrel showed symptoms of curiosity and excitement.
“What did he say, Chip?” he asked.
“I couldn’t tell you all he said, for I haven’t time, but he gave me a message for you. He wanted me to say, if I saw you before the game, that you’re not to draw any wrong conclusion from the way he has been behaving; he said that, when you know all, you’ll see how he’s acting for the best interests of all concerned.”
“That’s mighty hard to swallow,” said Darrel, with a trace of bitterness. “I saved his life when Jode failed, and yet he keeps right on with Jode just as he was doing before. I’m not finding any fault with him—he’s his own boss, and I’ve nothing to say. But I’m not the only one that’s doing a heap of guessing because of the way he’s acting.”
“Don’t form any snap judgments, Curly,” urged Frank. “Wait for a while, anyhow.”
“Oh, I’ll wait,” was the hopeless response. “What can I do but wait? But I’m pretty near discouraged. That forgery plot was too deep, too well laid. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
“Buck up, old man! We will get to the bottom of it—mark what I’m telling you.”
At this point the Ophir eleven and the substitutes trooped from the dressing rooms. Although Darrel belonged with Gold Hill, yet he was not an active Gold Hiller, and a lot of his warmest friendships were wrapped up in the Ophir team. The boy was a prime favorite, and the players flocked around him and pressed his hand cordially. Darrel, with a laughing remark to the effect that he wished the Ophir fellows all sorts of luck, excused himself and hurriedly left the gym.
The time had come for a final word with the eleven. Handy eased himself first of what was on his mind. He recalled the fact that Ophir had been beaten twice by the Gold Hillers. Would Ophir stand for that kind of thing three times hand running? He thought not. With a few words of counsel here and there, he stepped back and gave place to Merriwell.
“You know what the effect will be, fellows,” said Frank, “if you fall down on this game?”
A chorus of affirmatives greeted the question.
“I guess I don’t have to say anything more,” Frank added. “Get together, that’s all. You can win, and you’re going to.”
Just as he finished, a tumult of shouts and cheers came from the spectators. One look from the gym door showed that the Gold Hill team had trotted out on the field from their dressing rooms. They made a fine spectacle, and, all in all, looked to be the formidable crowd that they were.
Not only was Gold Hill cheering the team, but Ophir also had risen to its feet and joined in with the rival rooters. This augured well for the feeling that prevailed among the spectators.
After a few moments, the Gold Hill squad scattered over the gridiron for a little signal work.
“Now, then, fellows,” said Handy.
As the Ophir lads appeared, there was another round of cheering; but the volume of sound and the enthusiasm were no greater than in the case of their opponents. At sight of the Ophir squad, the Gold Hill players bunched together and gave them their club yell in a most friendly spirit. Jode Lenning himself, who was always more or less of a disturbing factor, led in the demonstration.
Handy, not to be outdone by the rivals, bunched up his men and returned the Gold Hill greeting.
“Gee,” laughed Clancy, at Merry’s elbow, “you’d never have thought, a spell ago, that these two clubs were ready to fly at each other’s throats! The proper spirit prevails in wads and slathers.”
“This is merely by way of shaking hands before the bout,” smiled Merry. “The test will come when we get down to business.”
While the Ophirites were being put through a few of their paces, Merry started in to fulfill his promise to Colonel Hawtrey. He began looking for Guffey.
The other coach found him first, and came forward smilingly and with outstretched hand.
“Hello, Merriwell,” said he pleasantly. “This is a bully day for a game, and a bully crowd of spectators.”
“You’re right,” Merry answered.
He kept close to Guffey, in an artless sort of way, and was with him when Lenning and Handy approached to toss for positions.
“Got a dollar, Guff?” inquired Lenning.
“Here’s a half, Len,” answered the coach, dipping into his pocket.
The coin was sent spinning into the air, and, when it fell, it was almost at Merriwell’s feet.
Lenning won, and naturally he chose the goal that had the wind in its favor. The players scattered out on the field, and Merry was left staring at Guffey—startled so that he scarcely realized what was going on around him.
The coin which Guffey had furnished for the toss was the plugged half dollar, Merry’s pocket piece, and the one that had vanished with the rest of the money from Merry’s coat. Frank had had a good look at the coin, and could not be mistaken.
[CHAPTER XLVI.]
THE GAME.
Merriwell’s interest in that game was naturally intense; and yet, it was not so intense as it was in that affair of Darrel’s. The colonel had hinted that Darrel was to be benefited by Merriwell’s watching Guffey. Keeping an eye on the other coach had started something, right at the very beginning of the game.
Like lightning Merry’s mind marshaled a few facts and evolved a startling theory. Hawtrey had said that Guffey had seen the game on the preceding Saturday. Merriwell’s thirty dollars had vanished during that game. Now Guffey had produced some of the loose change that had formed part of the “thirty.” It was money that could not readily be passed, so here was a possible reason for Guffey’s keeping it by him.
The pockets of the coat were emptied while the garment lay on the grand-stand benches. Instantly Merriwell thought of the dressing rooms under the stand, and of their possibilities as a point of observation. He thought, too, how easy it would be for a thief to reach out and draw the coat through between the seats, go into the garment at his leisure, and then replace it where it had been left by its owner.
Everything pointed to the fact that Simeon Guffey had taken the money. Frank had to believe the evidence. He stepped closer to the Gold Hill coach, who was watching the game with an absorbed air.
Ophir had got the Gold Hill kick-off and had run the ball back past the middle of the field, losing it after two downs by an on-side kick that failed to pan out as expected.
“Now, then, Gold Hill, smash into ’em! Get the steam engine to work! Flatten ’em out!” roared the visiting rooters.
“Hold ’em, Ophir!” came encouragingly from the local ranks.
Gold Hill smashed into a stone wall when Ophir took the defensive; but a breach was made, and Mingo, the Gold Hill half back, made some good gains by clever work. But Gold Hill, strongly favored by the wind, elected to punt in the hope of getting within scoring distance.
The ball gyrated through a long, high, aërial arc, to be captured on the Ophir fifteen-yard line and hustled back to the twenty-five yards before the runner was downed.
“Whoop-ya!” howled cowboys in the Ophir crowd; “eat ‘em up, you Ophir gophers! Swaller ’em, boots an’ chaps! You can do it!”
“I got a ten-case note what says they kain’t do it!” yelped a sporty miner from the Gold Hill benches.
“Make it a hundred an’ I’ll go ye!”
But evidently the other man couldn’t dig up the hundred.
Guffey, crouching on the side lines, was absently picking pebbles out of the sand and flipping them about. He seemed surprised by Ophir’s showing. Merry crouched down at his side.
“You’ve done wonders with that bunch since last week, Merriwell,” remarked Guffey.
He must have spoken before he thought. The next instant his jaw muscles flexed angrily, and his pallid face showed something like consternation.
“What do you know about our work last week, Guffey?” Frank asked.
He was so close to the other coach that it was not difficult for him to make himself heard in spite of the tumult caused by the spectators. One side or the other was howling and cheering, so that the uproar was almost continuous.
“Only—what I’ve heard,” answered Guffey, with some nervousness and constraint.
“You heard our eleven was poor?”
Guffey affected not to catch the question. He pretended to be wrapped up in the playing.
Ophir, from the twenty-five yards, had failed to gain, and punted. Gold Hill got the ball on her forty-yard line, and, after two trials that fell short, kicked again. The ball sailed over the goal line, and Ophir touched it back.
There came a bit of a lull. Frank pushed closer to Guffey.
“I say, Guffey,” said he, “will you let me look at that half dollar that was used for the toss?”
The Gold Hill coach turned his deathlike face toward Frank, and peered at him with suspicion in his faded blue eyes.
“You think it’s a fake coin, eh?” he demanded; “one of the heads-I-win-tails-you-lose sort, eh?”
There was a snarl, venomous as it was uncalled for, back of the words.
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Frank answered sharply. “I just want to look at it, that’s all.”
“There you are.”
Guffey thrust his hand into his pocket, jerked out a coin, and flung it down in front of Frank. The latter picked it up.
It was not a plugged coin, nor was it minted in the year of Merry’s birth. Guffey had substituted another piece for the one in question.
“This isn’t the half they used for the toss, Guffey,” said Frank.
“I’m a liar, am I?” demanded Guffey hotly. “What are you trying to do, Merriwell? Kick up a row?”
“No,” was the response, “I don’t want any row here to-day. Just let me see the half dollar that was used for the toss.”
“You’ve seen it.”
With that Guffey arose from his crouching position, and, with a scowl, moved off to another place. Frank knew that the fellow was guilty. He had seen Frank eying the plugged coin when it dropped in front of him, and he had reasoned that he might have recognized it. Frank’s request to see the silver piece was further proof to Guffey that he had developed a suspicious interest in it. Hence, Guffey’s motive for substituting another half dollar for the right one.
Ophir, after the touchback, had elected to put the pigskin in scrimmage, on the twenty-five yard line, but was soon back at its old punting tricks. Gold Hill’s right half, Poindexter by name, misjudged the ball. As it slipped from the ends of his fingers, he was pushed aside by an Ophir lad, who got it under him on Gold Hill’s forty-yard line.
Ophir went wild. The stands fairly roared, hats were tossed in the air, and yells and cheers made the whole place a pandemonium.
“What’s up between Guffey and you, Chip?” queried Clancy, in Merriwell’s ear.
“Why?” returned Merry. “What makes you think there’s anything up, Clan?”
“Blazes! Why, I can’t help but see when it’s going on right under my eyes.”
“Watch the game, Clan,” said Merry. “If I have to leave the field, you stand by to send in the substitutes.”
“Look here,” muttered the excited Clancy, “you don’t intend to clear out before the game’s over, do you?”
“I don’t know what will happen, Clan, but if I leave it will be to follow Guffey. Don’t ask any questions. I’m playing a bigger game than this little match at football.”
The red-headed fellow was all up in the air. His freckled face reflected his conflicting emotions.
Frank, turning to keep track of Guffey, saw Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, beckoning to him. He got up and walked over to the deputy’s side.
“I’m keepin’ an eye on that Guffey person, Merriwell,” said Hawkins. “You don’t need to bother.”
“What are you watching him for, Hawkins?” Frank asked.
“Because I don’t like his looks. He’s a pill.”
“He’s the Gold Hill coach, and you’re not to interfere with him, you know.”
“Mebby not, but what’re you baitin’ him for?”
They were both unconsciously peering toward Guffey. At that moment, the Gold Hill coach turned suddenly and gave the two of them a full, level stare. When he turned away, he acted like a person who is considerably wrought up and trying to conceal it.
“Wow!” chuckled Hawkins. “Say, son, he don’t like seein’ you and me in talk, like this. He’s makin’ a bluff that he don’t care—but it’s a bluff. Why does he care? You better tell me.”
“Not now,” said Frank, and walked away.
Meanwhile the quarter had ended with the ball on Gold Hill’s fifty-yard line. On the first play, Bradlaugh, left half for Ophir, carried the oval for a ten-yard gain. Little by little, steady as fate, the ball crept to within ten yards of the Gold Hill goal line.
Frank’s interest, for a while, almost turned from Guffey to the ball. It looked as though Ophir was surely due to make a touchdown.
The spectators had gone crazy with excitement. Gold Hill’s players were fighting like so many tigers; and then, out of the ruck of fighting and the tangle of sweating players, the ball soared up and over the field. Ophir groaned and Gold Hill began to jubilate.
That was the only time either goal had been in serious danger, and the half ended with the ball at about the place where it had been when first put into play.
Merriwell led his men to the dressing rooms.
“Fine work!” said he. “You’re going to get a touchdown in the next half, and Gold Hill isn’t going to score at all. I’ve got a hunch—one of the red-hot kind that always pans out. Mayburn, you’re a crackajack! Spink, just keep up the good work! Brad, you’re a star! What’s the matter, Deever?”
Lafe Deever, right end, was limping.
“Twisted my ankle,” said he, “but I reckon it won’t amount to much.”
“Take off your shoe and let’s see.”
Merry shook his head when he examined the exposed foot. The skin was broken and the ankle looked red and angry.
“Let Banks report to the referee, Handy,” said Frank. “Sorry, Deever,” he added, to the crestfallen end, “but we can’t take chances, you know. You’ve won glory enough in the first half, anyhow.”
Merry pulled Handy aside.
“If anything happens that I have to leave the field before the game is over, Handy,” said Frank, “Clancy will be on deck.”
“But you’re not going to leave——”
“Not if I can help it. There’s something important going on—something not down on the bills—and I can’t neglect it even for this football game.”
With that, Merry hurried from the gym. The first man he encountered on the field was Hawkins.
“Has Guffey come out of the Gold Hill dressing rooms yet?” he asked.
“Well, I reckon,” grinned the deputy. “He came out with Jode Lenning, an’ the two walked over to’rd the west end of the grand stand. There they are now, in a close confab.”
Frank sauntered carelessly in the direction of Guffey and Lenning.
[CHAPTER XLVII.]
NOT ON THE PROGRAM.
Over their shoulders, Lenning and Guffey caught sight of Merriwell making his way toward them. They exchanged hurried words, and Guffey turned from Lenning and started to leave the field around the lower end of the grand stand.
Frank quickened his pace a little. Lenning walked hurriedly toward Frank. He was plainly nervous and worried, and his shifty eyes held a harassed look.
“Where’s Guffey going?” Merry inquired, when Lenning was close enough to hear.
“He’s sick and is going around back of the stand to lie down,” was the answer. “He’s subject to spells with his head, and he’s got a bad one coming on now. He’ll be back before the last half’s over.”
Merriwell went on. Lenning watched him with growing suspicion.
“Are you going after him, Merriwell?” he asked.
“I want to talk with him,” Frank replied indefinitely.
“He’s in no shape to talk. He——”
But Merriwell, by then, was out of earshot. The call for the second half was ringing down the field. Lenning hesitated, as though inclined to follow Merriwell; then, tossing his hands with a desperate gesture, he whirled and ran to take his place with the rest of the Gold Hill team.
When Frank had worked his way past the lower end of the grand stand, he half started toward the dressing rooms. But he checked the move, for Guffey, as he could see, was traveling north across the sandy stretch of ground on that side of the club premises.
Lenning had misstated the case. The Gold Hill coach may have been having “a spell with his head,” but he was not bound for the dressing rooms to lie down. On the contrary, he was striding briskly off into the open, apparently bent on getting as far away from the football field as possible.
Merriwell chuckled grimly. He had thought that a maneuver of this kind would be attempted.
What he had said about the half dollar had certainly worked upon Guffey’s suspicions; and then, the suspicions must have been intensified when Guffey saw Frank talking with Hawkins, the deputy sheriff.
Undoubtedly the Gold Hill coach thought that a plan was forming to put him under arrest for stealing the thirty dollars. In order to avoid such a result, Guffey’s best plan, of course, was to get himself out of the way. This, very likely, was what he was attempting to do.
Guffey, casting a hurried look behind him, saw Merriwell. He began to run.
“Hold up, Guffey!” Merry shouted. “Don’t be in a rush.”
But Guffey was attending to a matter of pressing importance. If overtaken, a jail would yawn to receive him; on the other hand, if he succeeded in making his escape from Merriwell, he would perhaps receive the benefit of a doubt in the matter of that thirty dollars. Instead of halting, he increased his pace to the limit.
There must have been some exciting work going forward on the football field. The roar of the spectators mounted high, and never for a moment were grand stand and bleachers entirely quiet. The noise lessened as Merriwell and Guffey drew farther and farther away.
Merry, it was soon demonstrated, was a faster runner than Guffey, for at every stride he was gaining upon him. It was presently evident, too, that Merry was also a better jumper.
Ahead of Guffey lay an eight-foot irrigation ditch, filled to the brim with flowing water. The Gold Hill coach attempted to take it at a leap, but he took off too soon; then, on top of that, his foot slipped as he sprang into the air. It happened, therefore, that instead of landing safely on the opposite bank, he dropped squarely into the water.
For a moment he was under the surface, and all that was to be seen was his cap, floating away with the sluggish tide. Frank jumped the ditch and stood waiting on the opposite bank.
Guffey bobbed up, thoroughly drenched, and sputtering. Seeing Merriwell waiting for him, he turned to reach the other bank. To his astonishment—and somewhat to Merriwell’s, as well—Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, appeared abruptly and headed him off in that direction.
“What are you chumps trying to do?” sputtered Guffey.
“Tryin’ to git hands on you, Guffey,” answered Hawkins, with a grin. “If you think you’ve been in long enough, why not come out? Jumpin’ sand hills! What’s the matter with your hair?”
This was a question which Frank had been asking himself. The water had played sad pranks with Guffey’s jet-black hair. In spots the black had all run out of it, and had streaked his pale face, leaving a tow color in place of the dark hue that had previously distinguished the looks.
With a yell of consternation, Guffey put up his hands to his face and then withdrew them and looked at his smudged fingers.
“It ain’t right for a young feller to go dyin’ his hair that-a-way,” said Hawkins. “Come on out. I shouldn’t think it would be comfortable, stayin’ in there too long.”
“I’ll come out,” said Guffey savagely, “but you can’t arrest me for taking Merriwell’s money.”
“That’s it, eh?” chuckled the deputy sheriff. “I thought you’d done something to Merriwell that wasn’t exactly honest.”
“He stole thirty dollars from me,” said Frank. “He’s got a pocket piece of mine in his clothes, right this minute, and that was part of the stolen money. He furnished it for the toss, at the beginning of the football game, and I had a good look at it.”
“A fellow in Gold Hill worked that off on me,” said Guffey.
“He did, eh?” answered Frank grimly. “Then why didn’t you show the half dollar to me when I asked you? Why did you hand me another half, instead?”
“I did that by mistake,” was the lame excuse.
Guffey had splashed out of the ditch, and, dripping and forlorn, was standing close to Hawkins.
“We’ll let that part go, for the present,” said Frank. “Your real name is Billy Shoup, and not Sim Guffey. If you will tell all you know about that forgery, and the way you manipulated matters so as to make Ellis Darrel appear guilty, we’ll drop the robbery matter. What do you say?”
Guffey stood like a man in a trance. When he finally recovered speech he persisted in declaring that he was Guffey, and had never heard of the man called Shoup.
“What you need, Guffey,” grinned Frank, “is a change of heart. Maybe that will come to you with a change of clothes.”
He turned to Hawkins.
“Take charge of him, Hawkins,” he went on. “Take him to the Ophir House, and stay with him until I come. He knows all about that forgery business, and can clear Ellis Darrel. He’ll do it, too, or he’ll be put in jail for stealing that money from me.”
“I’ll hang onto him,” said Hawkins, “don’t fret about that. Come on, Guffey—or Shoup—whichever it is.”
Guffey walked meekly away with the deputy sheriff, trailing little streams of water behind him as he went. Frank hastened back to the football field, arriving just as Brad made the only touchdown of the game, and in the last five minutes of play.
Bedlam was let loose. All the Ophir partisans rushed into the field, caught their winning team up on their shoulders, and raced the entire eleven around the cinder track. Never before had Ophir experienced a day like that.
There were many shouts for Merriwell, but Merry was in the clubhouse. Hawtrey had caught him by the arm and hustled him to a place where they could have a few words in private.
Very briefly Frank told the colonel what had transpired in the vicinity of the irrigation ditch. The colonel’s face brightened wonderfully.
“I could have sworn it!” he exclaimed delightedly. “We’ll pick up Ellis and Jode and get to the hotel as soon as we can. I’m going to settle this affair now, once and for all. Wait here, Merriwell, till I find the others; then we’ll see how quick we can get to town.”
[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
It was half an hour before the colonel had rounded up the party he wished to take into Ophir with him, and during that time Frank was being congratulated warmly in the clubhouse on the success of the Ophir team. Mr. Bradlaugh, staid old gentleman that he was, fairly took the lad in his arms and gave him a hug.
“You did it, Merriwell,” he kept saying; “if it hadn’t been for you we couldn’t have won.”
When the colonel finally arrived with Jode and Ellis, Mr. Bradlaugh offered to give them a lift to the Ophir House in his car. Clancy and Ballard appeared just in time to form part of the load.
Merry’s chums had been wondering what it was that could have taken their chum off the field during the last half of that exciting game. Merriwell wouldn’t breathe a word on the ride into town, but told them to wait a little and the whole thing would be explained.
In less than fifteen minutes after leaving the clubhouse, Colonel Hawtrey, his two nephews, Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard were ushered by Pophagan into a room where Hawkins was keeping watch over Shoup, alias Guffey.
Shoup had wrung out and dried off his clothes, and he had likewise washed his face and removed the rest of the color from his hair. The moment Jode Lenning saw him, he sank limply into a chair, white to the lips.
“I know you, you contemptible cur,” cried the colonel, shaking a finger in Shoup’s face. “You’re the fellow who, more than a year ago, brought a forged check to me and said my nephew, Darrel, gave it to you. I thought that Guffey and you might be one and the same person, and that’s why I was willing to bear with Jode for a while longer, and see what I could make out of his desire to get a new coach for Gold Hill. Tell me about that forgery, and do it quick. The truth, mind!”
“What will you do to me if I—I tell the truth?” quavered Shoup.
“Nothing, but if you lie I’ll see to it that you’re landed behind the bars.”
“And you’ll let that thirty dollars pass?” asked Shoup, looking toward Merriwell.
“I’ve already told you I would—if you tell the truth,” Merry answered.
“Well, here goes, then. I was a fool for ever coming back here, but Darrel had shown up and Lenning was scared, and wanted to do something to get rid of him. So I came on, when Lenning wired. I happen to be a fair football coach, and that was Lenning’s excuse for getting me here. But the main object of this trip, just as of the one before, was to do up Darrel.”
“Why did Jode want his half brother ‘done up’?” cut in the colonel.
“Why, Jode wanted all your property for himself,” answered Shoup, an ugly smile on his pasty face, “and that was his principal reason for wanting to get Darrel out of the way.”
“Go on,” said the colonel, between his teeth; “tell us about the forgery.”
“Jode planned it,” explained Shoup, “and furnished the forged check. I was to get Darrel into a game, dope his drink, and then accuse him of having given me the forged check. That’s the way it worked. Darrel was hazy and couldn’t remember what he’d done. Jode, of course, was at home with you, colonel, so you hadn’t a notion he was mixed up in it.”
“You’re a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the colonel, “but Jode Lenning is a whole lot worse. What have you to say, young man?” and he turned on his cowering and discredited nephew with gleaming eyes.
Jode tried to talk, but words failed him. He began to whimper.
“Is it true, what this fellow Shoup has told me?” thundered the colonel.
“Y-yes,” Jode answered.
“I already knew you were a coward,” said the colonel, “and I was tempted to think you were a knave as well, but I couldn’t be sure. It was necessary first to catch Shoup, and wring a confession from him. I thought, when you were so eager to have this Guffey come to Gold Hill, that he might be Shoup. Something in your manner aroused my suspicions. That is why I let the fellow come. To-day I asked Merriwell to coöperate with me and see what we could learn from the Gold Hill coach. Merriwell’s work surpassed my hopes and expectations. He made a star play, and, as a result, has cleared the name of his chum of every stain. As for you, Lenning, clear out. I’m done with you for good! I——”
Darrel caught his uncle’s sleeve, drew his head down, and whispered to him earnestly. The colonel shook his head, but Ellis continued to insist, and finally his uncle yielded.
“Ellis asks me to temper my indignation a little,” said he, “and to be a little more lenient. His motive does him credit, after the way he has suffered at your hands, Jode. You can go to my house and collect your traps; and, when you leave, I will give you a thousand dollars to make a fresh start in the world. Now, clear out! You go with him, Shoup!” he added.
Jode got up and staggered from the room. Shoup followed him, turning at the door to laugh derisively, and bid those in the room a mocking good-by.
“Sufferin’ horn toads!” muttered Hawkins, “that’s no way to treat a law breaker.”
“Better that, Hawkins,” answered the colonel, “than to put Shoup through for his crimes and not get the evidence to clear Darrel. My lad, will you now honor me with your hand?”
Darrel pressed the colonel’s palm joyfully, and then whirled to shake hands with Merriwell.
“You’re the one who did it, old man!” he exclaimed, in a trembling voice. “If it hadn’t been for you, Chip, I’d still be the ‘boy from Nowhere.’”
THE END.
“Frank Merriwell, Jr. in Arizona” will be the title of the next volume of the Merriwell Series, No. 217. Frank’s adventures in the West make up an absorbing tale.