Dick did not answer at once. He picked up the blotter and scrutinized it closely. It was a fresh one and apparently had been used but once. Evidently some one had written a short note in a heavy, scrawly hand with a stub pen, and blotted it in haste. What had attracted the Yale man’s attention was his own name reversed, which appeared almost at the top of the blotter.
“This is very interesting,” he said at length. “Somebody seems to have been taking my name in vain, and I’m a little curious to see what the connection is.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up, the blotter in one hand. Over the mantel at the other end of the room was a long mirror, and walking across to it, Dick held the blotter up to the glass. Buckhart had also risen and was looking at the reflection over his friend’s shoulder.
“Merriwell,” deciphered Dick slowly; “mine—to-morrow—your chance—miss—want to put—business—pitch.”
The Yale pitcher turned and eyed his friend quizzically.
“This is decidedly interesting,” he remarked. “Even more so than I expected. There’s some more words in between the others that are not very clear, but perhaps we can make something out of them. Get a sheet of paper and a pencil, will you, Brad?”
The Texan made haste to bring paper and pencil, and, laying the former on the mantel shelf, Dick studied the blotter carefully again. Presently he wrote something on the paper and turned again to the blotter.
He kept this up for ten or fifteen minutes in silence, and at the end of that time he picked up the paper and carried it back to one of the desks.
“That’s about all I can make out,” he said, as he sat down and spread the sheet out before him. “Draw up a chair and let’s see how it reads.”
The Texan pulled a chair up, and they bent their heads over the desk.