Fritz, moving toward the chuck tent with an armful of wood, sighted the ball under Clancy’s arm. He gave a whoop of delight, and dropped the wood.
“Py shinks,” he cried, “you got him! Vat a habbiness iss dot! Say, Merrivell, now I can lick dot greaser feller, don’d it, mitoudt gedding tocked der fife tollar?”
“Lay a hand on Silva,” answered Frank, glaring at Fritz and winking an off eye at Clancy, “and you’ll lose the five, ball or no ball.”
Fritz looked grieved, and slowly picked up his wood and waddled away with it. Clancy threw the ball into the tent and dropped down in the shade beside Merriwell.
“Merriwell,” said the professor, a troubled look in his face, “ever since I returned to camp yesterday afternoon I have found myself vastly concerned over this accident to Darrel—vastly concerned. In fact, I may say I have become obsessed with the idea that some one—I cannot say who—may be entangled in the affair in a—er—guilty manner. Tell me, if you please, do you consider that what happened to Darrel was an accident?”
The professor doubled up his pocket comb like a jackknife and stowed it away in his pocket. Then, adjusting his glasses, he peered over the tops of them at Frank.
“How could it have been anything else, professor?”
“You are beating about the bush, Merriwell,” reproved the professor; “you are not frank with me. Do you, sir, consider the breaking of that rope an accident, or not?”
“Not,” spoke up Clancy.
“From the facts at hand,” replied Merriwell, “it is hard to say what it was.”