Uric Scudder rubbed his weak chin and looked at Watson, who returned the glance with interest. Then Fletcher turned to them, and his expression was an appeal for backing.
"Don’t you worry," he urged. "Old Gunn won’t do anything."
"It’s no use to say that," said Wade. "He’s doing something now. He’s begun an investigation on his own hook, and I’ll bet anything we’ll all be hauled up before him within a week."
"In which case," said Scudder, attempting to help Fletcher out, "we must be prepared with a slick little story, to which we can all stick."
"Not for me!" cried Reid.
"Nor me!" said Wade.
"Why, you don’t mean you will welch, do you?" snapped Zeb, in apparent amazement.
"I mean that I shall tell the truth," said Mart Reid. "I shall confess that I was sore because Merriwell made the eleven and I was not given a trial."
"You fool!" snarled Zeb, his crooked eye blazing and looking very wicked.
"That will be cutting your own throat," averred Scudder. "You can’t do it!"