Parker went to his desk at once, and produced a pad of blue paper. Foote’s face lighted up.
“Good business!” he said. “That’s such unusual paper that our friend isn’t likely to have another piece just like it about his rooms. Now fold a piece of that just the way your confession was folded—see?”
Parker obeyed.
“All right,” said Foote. “You’ll have to make up to Merriwell. That was plain idiocy you showed when you saw him to-day—defying him openly. You can’t do a thing against him in the open. Now, I want you to go to his rooms, to-night. Apologize. Tell him you’re sorry that you acted the way you have. Explain that you’ve thought it all over, and have decided that he’s right. Carry this with you.”
He handed Parker the folded blue sheet.
“And look around. If you can manage to be alone in his room for a minute or two, try to substitute this for the other paper. He won’t be apt to look at your precious confession unless he thinks he’s going to need it, and then he won’t be able to prove who took it.”
“I can’t bluff him into thinking I’m going to reform,” said Parker sourly. “You said yourself he was too clever for me. He’ll see through that in a minute.”
“No, he won’t,” said Foote, with assurance. “He’d see through anything you could think up yourself, but he doesn’t think you’ve got sense enough to think of trying to fool him that way, and he’ll believe you, especially if you don’t slop over too much. You do as I say. But remember, you’ve got to bring that confession back here or I’ll drop the whole business.”
Parker growled, but obeyed. He took the blue paper, slipped it into his pocket, and went off in search of Dick Merriwell. The universal coach was in his rooms, and received him with perfect friendliness. But he seemed a little surprised.
“I’ve come to say that I behaved like a fool to-day, Mr. Merriwell,” Parker began ungraciously. “I was wrong all through, and I want to tell you that I’ve made up my mind to take my medicine and do the best I can to play on the team in the fall.”