“It was luck—nothing more,” said Poland. “I don’t wonder Marone is howling ‘horseshoes.’”
“With that kind of backing, Kates may be able to hold the score down, don’t you think?” questioned Bern Wolfe, at Toleman’s elbow.
“Never,” answered Bill promptly. “Those Manhattan fellows are not going to bat the ball right at somebody every time they hit it. Notice every man did hit it. Kates never can win this game in the world.”
“Between us four,” said Poland, in a low tone, “I don’t believe Merriwell’s shoulder is as lame as he pretends it is. He’s afraid of Manhattan, that’s what’s the matter. That was quite a fine and fancy story about the holdup, but it sounded too fancy for me to believe.”
“Oh, but the police say the story is all right,” snickered Dagett. “Have you forgotten that Officer Jordan, who arrived on the scene after the holdup men had escaped, picked up a human finger that had been shot from one of the ruffians’ hands by the wonderful cowboy, Bradley Buckhart? Say, I wonder how much those two fellows paid the cops and the reporters to get such a yarn into the papers?”
“Then you don’t take any stock in that holdup story?” questioned Wolfe quickly.
“I don’t,” answered Dagett. “Do you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bern. “It doesn’t seem to me that the yarn can be wholly a fake.”
“Why not?” questioned Poland.
“I should fancy some one would expose the deception.”