“Good,” cried the three Yale men together. “That ought to settle it.”
The watchman came in, supported by two plain-clothes officers. Jones, who had unhesitatingly cast in his lot with the Yale men this time, because he had had experience with the sagacity of Dick Merriwell before, smiled.
“That’s him,” cried the watchman wildly, pointing to Jim Phillips. “He’s one of the gang. He hit me over the head.”
Dick Merriwell cried out incredulously, then looked hard at the watchman. The man’s cheeks were burning with fever, his eyes were those of a madman.
“You can’t take this man seriously in his present condition,” Dick cried. “He should be in the hospital and receiving proper care.”
“He will be provided for, Mr. Merriwell,” said old Bromlow, who arrived in time to hear that. “In the meantime, I must demand the arrest of Phillips. Mr. Brady, I am still a sworn officer of this bank. I can no longer humor your views.”
Brady’s indignant protests were useless. Jim Phillips was placed under arrest, but he was released at once on bail, and Jones, who had reluctantly made the arrest, was very angry.
“It won’t take you long to clear this up, Mr. Merriwell,” he said to the universal coach. “And I’m here to help you do it, too.”