What the broker’s motive was he could not guess. There were a dozen reasons why he might wish to bring such a thing about, and Dick did not waste much time over that. The great thing was to convince Kenny that Carr was meddling, and that he had an ulterior motive for wishing the defeat of Yale; and this was almost impossible.
The man’s manner was frank and open. He spoke enthusiastically of Yale’s chances for victory, even offering to lay a little money on the blue. He referred often, though with apparent casualness, to his brother’s intimate connection with the university, and with football; and more than once he had been heard to wish that he had taken his degree at New Haven instead of Providence.
Dick easily found an opportunity of meeting him; for he seemed to have no friends in town except the college boys, with whom he had grown to be rather popular. He found the fellow a keen, shrewd man of the world, likewise an interesting and amusing talker, and possessed of a certain degree of attractiveness. It seemed almost incredible that such a man as he—polished, refined, and gentlemanly—could stoop to the underhand methods which Merriwell suspected. And yet, if he were not to blame for influencing Kenny, who was?
Having met Carr, Merriwell realized full well the utter impossibility of convincing the quarter back of his double-dealing, without absolute proof. And where was he to get that proof, when all he had to go by was his own intuition?
Supper on Friday night was a dismal meal. The practice that afternoon had been particularly dispiriting and lacking in vim and go. Fullerton had bellowed himself hoarse and had been reduced to open wrath at the wretched showing made by many of the team. Don Tempest, white-faced and with set teeth, had struggled desperately to prevent himself giving way to a furious outburst of rage at the aggravating Kenny, who seemed even more possessed of the devil than usual.
Everything seemed to be at sixes and sevens, and it was scarcely to be wondered that gloomy, discouraged faces were the rule that night, as the fellows thought of what the morrow might bring forth and groaned inwardly.
Merriwell, Buckhart, and one or two others tried to combat the persistent gloom, but without avail. They, themselves, were not feeling any too sure about things, and their cheering words were not of the most convincing order.
Consequently, the meal went on to a silent finish; and then, as chairs were pushed back, and the men arose, Tempest stopped them with a quick gesture.
“Just a minute, fellows,” he said, in a low tone. “There’ll be a short meeting of the team and subs in the gym at eight o’clock. Please be there, all of you.”
At Merriwell’s suggestion there was to be a last effort made to rally the failing spirits of the men and make them realize how grave was the situation. It was all he could think of at the moment, and he meant to take the floor himself and bring all his power of eloquence to bear to try and brace them up. But, first, he intended to have another whack at Kenny and see if by hook or crook he couldn’t bring him to his senses.