“And I’ve had no reason to regret it,” said Dick, laying his hand on the senior’s shoulder with a friendly gesture. “You had some wrong ideas—all you needed was a chance to see for yourself that you had been mistaken.”
Foote had caused the warning as to the history examination to be sent to the dean, but he had not made the mistake of sending it himself. Instead, he had worked through a new member of the faculty, an instructor named Gordon, an old friend of his, to whom he had gone with much seeming hesitation and told what he said he knew. Gordon, a thoroughly honest and well-meaning young man, had readily promised not to divulge the name of his informant, and had immediately made a written report to the dean. But, even though he felt that his own tracks were well covered, Foote was sorry that he had not waited to give Dick Merriwell a chance to act. The very foundation of his whole plan depended upon Dick’s falling into the trap by keeping silence about the affair.
Dick Merriwell had not done it. Thoroughly selfish himself, Foote could not understand a man like Merriwell, who, if he saw that a thing was right, would do it, no matter how his own wishes and desires might be affected. He had known that Dick was set upon the success of the baseball team; it had not seemed possible to him that he would willingly sacrifice the chance of that success if it could only be attained by doing something that was wrong and dishonorable. So Foote was nervous. He thought that Merriwell must have been warned of his plan in some manner, and have thought of a way to defeat it.
He told this much to Parker, but Parker had more sense, in a way, than Foote. Parker was not at bottom vicious. He was ambitious, and terribly disappointed by his failure to be chosen as captain of the football team. Because he thought Dick Merriwell was responsible for his defeat, he hated the universal coach, and he wanted to be revenged upon him.
“I don’t know about all this, Foote,” he said. “You don’t want to run away with the idea that Merriwell would only have gone to the dean because he got on to your little game. He might have done it because it was the right thing to do. He’s inclined to be that way, you know. He could have shown me up before the whole college if he’d wanted to, and made it impossible for me to stay here; and I don’t see why he didn’t.”
“He had some good reasons, you can depend on that,” scoffed Foote. “You can’t make me believe that Merriwell’s as good as he tries to make out. I know his kind. He’s like all the rest of us—trying to do the best he can for himself. If he took a chance of breaking up his team, he had some mighty good reason for doing it. I’m afraid of him now. We’ve got to work out some new way of beating him. I guess it can be done, too. One thing’s sure: Taylor will be able to disprove that charge. I’ve got to work out some other way of keeping those two, or one of them, anyhow, out of that game.”
That was the night before the game, and the night before commencement, too. Professor Canfield’s examination had been postponed on account of his illness; for all other examinations were over, and the marks posted. The papers were to be corrected hurriedly on the morning of Commencement Day, but Canfield had been the more ready to wait thus until the last minute because he was a professor who paid little attention to examination papers. He judged men by their work during the terms, and he had decided some time before that every man in this particular class had done well enough to pass the course. Therefore, he had privately assured the dean that no man would fail. But Foote didn’t know that.
He turned to Parker finally with a look of determination in his eye. It was very late, and the whole town seemed to be asleep. They were near Dwight Hall.
“I’ve got to get inside there for a while, Parker,” said Foote. “You stick around out here, and if you see any one coming in—which there isn’t one chance in a million you will—give the old whistle. I’ll hear you and make myself scarce.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Parker, suddenly going white.