Dick Merriwell was doing a lot of thinking just then, and had no part in the conversation. But he heard Watson’s prophecy, as well as the howl of derision that greeted it from the others, and he was struck by the possibility that the class pessimist might be right. He found it almost impossible to take the things he had seen with his own eyes seriously, for he knew that eight men, rowing as those Harvard men had done, should have been nearly two minutes faster over the course than they had actually been. It was not possible to deceive Dick, or any other man who knew as much about rowing as he did, about the pace that certain efforts should give.
He wandered off to see Benton, and found that his aid agreed fully with him.
“I don’t see how there can be anything in the idea that they were holding back,” said Benton. “We could see the way they were rowing, and you know as well as I, Mr. Merriwell, or, probably, a good deal better, that they were doing everything in the best possible way. That’s the best Harvard crew I ever saw on the river here. It’s been better coached and has learned more about rowing than any Harvard crew I’ve ever seen. They hardly ever expect to win that race with Cornell that they row on Decoration Day, because they’re never coached for a two-mile race, and their condition for practice don’t touch those that Courtney has up at Ithaca. But I saw the race this year. The Charles was rotten that day—for them, but it might have been made to order for Cornell. And still Harvard won only by about half a length. There’s something funny going on, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“I’d think less of it except for what you told me about our own crew’s work on Saturday,” said Dick. “No one much knows about that, and I’m just as glad. It gives us a chance to investigate quietly, if that seems to be necessary. Neilson invited me to go out with him again to-morrow morning, and see what his fellows do, and I guess I’ll take him up this time. I’ll leave the practice to you. If there’s anything queer afoot, I’ll stake my word on it that Neilson hasn’t anything to do with it, nor any one else officially connected with the Harvard crew. They’re good sportsmen, and I think they’d rather lose the race than sanction anything that wasn’t absolutely square.”
“I agree with you there,” said Benton. “Neilson’s all right, and I happen to know that he doesn’t believe at all in betting on college sports. I think it’s something that ought to be stopped, myself—among the students, at least. Of course, there’s no way of controlling alumni and outsiders. You can ask them not to bet, but if the anti-gambling laws of three States won’t stop them, I guess it would be pretty hard for us to do it.”
“Betting will spoil any sport that it gets a hold on,” said Dick. “It’s ruined horse racing, so that now they have to quit the racing when they can’t bet, and it would have ruined professional baseball if the leagues hadn’t united to make it impossible for the betting to be done in the baseball parks. I’m very much afraid that there’s something crooked afoot here, but I can’t make out yet what they’re driving at. However, we’ll find, I think, that betting’s at the bottom of it, if anything of the sort is going on.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
PICKING UP THE TRAIL.
That night, after the oarsmen had returned, Dick Merriwell made an inspection of the whole course of the race. In the Elihu Yale with him were the two assistants, Benton and Hargreaves, and Jim Phillips and Bill Brady. Dick, after a little debate, had told the two baseball players, now become juniors, of what had happened, and of his suspicions, vague as yet, but well fixed in his mind.
“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” he said, as they started out, “and, frankly, I hardly expect to find it to-night. But sometimes, if you go over ground that is likely to contain a clew, even if you have no notion of what that clew may be, you will hit upon something helpful—get into the spirit of your search, so to speak. That’s why I suggested this trip.”