“I don’t think either of you should demand an apology from the other. Nor should you hold a grudge. You’re not playing for Buckhart; you’re playing for the team. Think it over, Kates. I’ll expect to see you out with the others to-morrow afternoon. We’ve got to get together and play ball if we hope to defeat Manhattan.”
“We’ll have to play different ball than we did Saturday,” said Sam, as Dick departed.
On Monday morning Dick received a letter that surprised him unspeakably. It was the confession of Mike Lynch.
“Well, that beats!” he cried when he had finished reading it.
“What is it?” questioned Jones.
“I’d like to show this to you,” said Dick. “I’d like to have you read it.”
But when Jones reached for the letter, Merriwell drew it away, shaking his head.
“No, I can’t, old man,” he said. “It’s confidential. The fellow who wrote this has trusted me. He has placed himself in my hands. With this document I could have him expelled from college. He has thrown himself on my mercy. The fellow must be sincere. He certainly protests that he is, and he urges me to keep this letter, to be used against him in case I ever find he is not in earnest. I think I’ll take him at his word.”
Returning the confession to the envelope, Merriwell placed it in a drawer which he always kept locked, and the key of which he carried constantly. From this drawer he took the queer old horse pistol and the two silver bullets.
“What the dickens have you there?” asked Jones.