CHAPTER XXXVII
SPITE PROVES TOO STRONG.
The appearance of Barrows in New Haven was due to the failure of his great coup at New London, when, instead of winning a great sum as the result of his plan to cause the defeat of Yale in the annual boat race with Harvard, he had been disastrously defeated by Dick Merriwell and Jim Phillips, who had spoiled all his most cherished plans, and dealt him a severe blow.
“What happened to you, Pete?” asked Marsten, after Foote, committed to the service of Barrows, had left the gambling house. “I thought you were all fixed. The way I heard it you had a gold mine in that race. I wanted to get in on it with you, but I didn’t hear about it in time.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” said Barrows. “You’ve got more money now than you would have had if you’d tried to horn in on that game. It was something fierce, Johnny. Harding warned me of Merriwell and his crowd, but I don’t know yet how they got onto us. We’ve lost Stevenson’s boat for him, and he swears he’s going to shoot me the first time he sees me. He’s mad enough to do it, too, specially if he gets drunk.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Marsten.
“Rustle for a stake,” said Barrows bitterly. “I’m cleaned out, Johnny. That business at New London set me back about six thousand. It was the worst thing I ever bumped into. And the worst of it all is Harding. He warned us before we went into it, and now he’s gone around New York, blowing about it and telling every one how this bunch of kids broke up my game. I’m afraid to show up there broke. They’d laugh at me for a month.”
“Being broke is tough, Pete,” said Marsten. “I’d like to help you out, but I’m on my uppers myself. Lots of paper, but precious little of the ready cash.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” said Barrows. “You’re all right, Johnny. But I’m not borrowing. Never did—unless I was down to hardpan. And I’ve got a couple of hundred in my belt still. That’s enough to work a game I’ve got in mind. What I want is a couple of rooms here for a day or two. I’ve got the cleverest guy working in with me now you ever saw. He’s a chap called Bascom, that used to be a wireless operator on a liner. He never could make his fingers behave around the money drawer. That’s what started him with me. But as an electrical expert, he’s got Tesla and all those people lashed to the mast. He’s the one that doped out the stunt with the electromagnet. He’s wise, all right. Now we’ve got to do a little strong-arm work. Tell me about the banks here. Ain’t there some trusted teller or cashier that’s been bucking your game?”
“Sure there is,” said Marsten. “Riggs, paying teller of the Elm National. I’ve been watching him pretty close. He’s been playing here for a year, pretty easy. But I’ve been getting ready to string him along for a big play. He’s made it now. Not the wheel—he’s too clever for that. The races are his lay. He’s got a thousand of the bank’s money now, and if I say the word he’ll have to jump through a hoop. He knows blame well I’ve got the goods on him.”
“Fine and dandy!” said Barrows. “That is all I need. We can pull this off all right. Safe as a church, Johnny, and if you let us use your place here, you divvy a quarter of the loot with us. Say, if the banks in this country knew as much about Bascom as I do, they’d pay him a hundred thousand a year to go and live in the Sandwich Islands—and they’d be saving money at that.”