“That’s it, eh?” chuckled the deputy sheriff. “I thought you’d done something to Merriwell that wasn’t exactly honest.”
“He stole thirty dollars from me,” said Frank. “He’s got a pocket piece of mine in his clothes, right this minute, and that was part of the stolen money. He furnished it for the toss, at the beginning of the football game, and I had a good look at it.”
“A fellow in Gold Hill worked that off on me,” said Guffey.
“He did, eh?” answered Frank grimly. “Then why didn’t you show the half dollar to me when I asked you? Why did you hand me another half, instead?”
“I did that by mistake,” was the lame excuse.
Guffey had splashed out of the ditch, and, dripping and forlorn, was standing close to Hawkins.
“We’ll let that part go, for the present,” said Frank. “Your real name is Billy Shoup, and not Sim Guffey. If you will tell all you know about that forgery, and the way you manipulated matters so as to make Ellis Darrel appear guilty, we’ll drop the robbery matter. What do you say?”
Guffey stood like a man in a trance. When he finally recovered speech he persisted in declaring that he was Guffey, and had never heard of the man called Shoup.
“What you need, Guffey,” grinned Frank, “is a change of heart. Maybe that will come to you with a change of clothes.”
He turned to Hawkins.