“That may be, but your crowd will have to go some if you make a clean-up next Saturday.”
Merry received this remark in thoughtful silence. He was wondering about this Guffey person, and where and how he had made himself such a phenomenal coach.
“Well, Bleek,” said he presently, “let’s drop Guffey and get back to Curly Darrel. I want to do what I can to help him, and you haven’t dipped very deep into anything as yet.”
“I’m coming to that right now.” Bleeker straightened and peered cautiously around into the wavering shadows. “We’re all by ourselves here, aren’t we?” he asked.
“The only people who are anywhere near us are in the hotel, and they’re all asleep,” said Frank reassuringly.
“What I tell you is in strict confidence.”
“Sure. You can trust me, can’t you? Fire away.”
“Has Darrel ever told you how he happened to get mixed up in that forgery affair?”
“He has said mighty little about it. I don’t think he knows very much himself. He told me that he made a wrong move—a move he always regretted. Lenning was drinking and gambling on the q. t., and managing to keep it away from the colonel, so Darrel side-stepped and went into it himself. One night he gambled and grew sort of hazy; couldn’t remember what happened; and when he had his wits, next day, the forged check for five hundred showed up, and the fellow who had it said Darrel had given it to him to square a gambling debt. But Darrel couldn’t remember a thing about it.”
“I was one of a party of four when that happened,” said Bleeker huskily, and fairly driving the words out.