“But what about Randall?” Bully queried weakly. “You tried to get him to throw the game with Franklin, and he got sore. He ain’t the kind to do this, pop.”
“Oh, I sized him up pretty well,” chuckled the elder Carson wickedly. “Now listen, Bully: You work this right, and I’ll give you ten per cent of all I win on the game, see? This part of it depends on you, and you can do it fine.
“Go to Fardale and get hold of Randall. Talk to him slow and easy, and get him madder and madder. He’ll be sore about not getting elected captain, anyhow. Work on that string. Play him good and strong, and get him to promise that he’ll give the stuff to Merriwell. Then we’ve got him. He’s one o’ them fellers who’ll stick to a promise, no matter what comes. But you’ll have to handle it right.”
“You can trust me for that,” said Bully, with a growl, as he took the paper.
His eyes shone with vindictive cunning. He had tried to injure Merriwell, but vainly. Therefore, it was quite natural that he should bear bitter hatred toward the fellow he had tried to injure.
He saw that by working through Randall he would be freed of all personal responsibility, and this thought cheered on his little soul. He was willing enough to do anything for which another could be made to suffer, and this sort of chicanery was precisely what he could do well.
None the less, he did not forget that he wanted money. He saw that his father’s scheme depended upon him, and grinned evilly.
“Now, come across, pop!”
“Hey?” Colonel Carson glared. “What do you mean?”
“Come across, I said!” Bully lolled back negligently in his chair, and eyed his father coolly. “I ain’t workin’ for my health.”