“No,” he replied slowly, “it isn’t all luck, son. Just the same, I’ve no fears that he’ll be able to buck Diggs. There’s no harm in making sure against all chance, however. If we could get him out of the way, Randall would pitch. That’d cinch the whole thing.”
“Huh!” sniffed Bully. “You said that once before——”
“Shut up!” snapped his father violently. “I’ve had enough of your insolence! We’ll fix that kid this time, and no mistake.”
“You will, you mean. Count me out right here, pop! I’ve had all I want o’ that kid, and if there’s any ‘fixing’ to do, I ain’t goin’ to mix in it. No, I’m cured, I am, and I reckon I’ll stay cured quite a spell.”
He felt his injured eye tenderly. His father continued to pull at his goatee, and suddenly he nodded in decision and rose.
Going to a cabinet that stood against the wall, he opened a small drawer and extracted a tiny folded paper. With this in his hand, he returned to Bully.
“All right, son, we’ll let your goody-goody Cousin Bob Randall handle this for us. You go over to Fardale to-morrow and see him. Give him this”—and he held up the folded paper—“and tell him to get Merriwell to drink it any time in the forenoon next Saturday. It’s a powder, and all Randall will have to do is to shake it into a glass of water. It’ll fix him.”
Colonel Carson’s eyes were malevolent as he spoke. Bully hung back, however.
“No, you don’t, pop,” he cried, with something like fear, “I ain’t goin’ to mix up in no poisoning——”
“Shut up, you fool!” snarled his father, glancing around. “This ain’t poison, but a powder that’ll send him off into a sound sleep for a while. It won’t hurt him in any fashion, but it’ll put him out o’ the game for sure.”