What they saw was fairly clear. A few letters were missing, but not enough to destroy the sense of the letter.
“Merriwell wi—be—mine to-morrow—ni— —— ock. —his—s your chance. —nt miss it—yo— want to put hi— —ut of business so—e —an— pitch —— nst —ou.”
“That’s as plain as daylight,” Dick said, with satisfaction. “Put in the few letters which are missing, and it will read like this:
“‘Merriwell will be at the mine to-morrow at nine o’clock. This is your chance. Don’t miss it, if you want to put him out of business so he cannot pitch against you.’
“That’s really the most interesting epistle I’ve read in a long time, old fellow,” Merriwell went on. “Short, and to the point. No address, no signature. The plot thickens, Bradley, my boy.”
“It sure does, pard—a-plenty,” growled the Westerner. “I’d like to know the onery varmint that wrote it. I’d make him a whole lot shy about repeating the performance. You hear me softly warble!”
“I’d rather know who it was written to,” Dick said meditatively. “Then I’d know who to look out for.”
He looked at Buckhart with a sudden gleam in his eyes.
“Did you notice where Morrison came from when he went through the lobby a little while ago?” he asked slowly.
The Texan brought his clenched fist down on the desk with a crash that made the pens and inkwells bounce.