Jack had seen the whole astounding performance. His first impulse had been to rush in, seize Parker, and call to Dick. But he had been learning caution and diplomacy. He made sure of what was going on, and then, as silently as possible, passed on in the corridor outside the room, until he was safe from observation. There he waited until, a few minutes later, he heard Parker come out and pass down the stairs.
Tempest had not had to wait very long. Parker waited a very short time after the return of Dick Merriwell, with the leaflet the junior had asked him for, and he had gone down the stairs, whistling merrily, to the intense indignation of Tempest. One reason, perhaps, that Tempest was so angry was that Parker had selected as the tune he chose to whistle, “Marching Through Georgia,” a song that still has the power to anger Southern listeners, though it is nearly fifty years since Sherman spread ruin and devastation as he swept with his army from Atlanta to the sea.
Foote was still waiting when Parker returned.
“I got it!” cried Parker, holding up the blue sheet. “Pretty quick work; what?”
“It was all right,” admitted Foote grudgingly. “I didn’t know whether you’d have gumption enough—here, hold on! what are you doing?”
But he sprang toward Parker too late. The junior had torn the sheet into a hundred pieces, delighted at the chance to get rid of the incriminating evidence of his former conspiracy.
“What’s the matter with you?” cried Parker angrily.
“You blamed fool!” yelled Foote. “What did you tear that up for without giving me a chance to look at it? How did you know it was the right one?”
“Oh, shucks!” cried Parker. “Is that all? It’s the right one, right enough. No mistake there. I suppose it would be nice for you to have that. I guess I’d just about as soon let Dick Merriwell keep it as put myself in your power by giving it to you.”
He leered at Foote, and the other had no answer, for it was with some thought of being able to control Parker that he had planned to possess himself of the paper.