“If I could only prove something against that traitor, Carr,” he said to himself, as he crossed the campus with Brad.
Suddenly he gave a start.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud. “I might try that!”
“Try what?” inquired Buckhart. “What are you talking about, anyhow, pard?”
“Nothing much,” Merriwell answered, as he quickened his pace. “I was just thinking.”
He did not speak another word until they reached the rooms. The moment the door was closed he dashed into the closet, and, fumbling around for a few minutes in the dark, presently emerged with an armful of clothes and a flat, oblong box.
With wondering eyes the Texan watched him swiftly strip off his suit and array himself in the one he had resurrected from the depths of the closet. With ever-growing curiosity, he saw his chum open the box and take out a jar of cold cream and some sticks of grease paints. Then he could contain himself no longer.
“What in thunder are you up to now?” he exploded.
“I’m going to make a last effort to bring that little idiot Kenny around,” he replied. “If it succeeds, I’ll tell you all about it. If it don’t——”
He finished the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders and caught up a stick of grease paint. Brad’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he watched the rapid transformation going on before his eyes. A touch here, a line there, worked wonders. Some false eyebrows, skillfully attached, made the disguise still more perfect.