“Most certainly, Merriwell. It has just—ah—occurred to me that if we could locate this Carson, we might thus exonerate Mr. Randall completely. Such a consummation would be—ah—highly pleasing to me.”
“He ain’t at the village,” spoke up the constable. “Mr. Hostetter was lookin’ fer him, sir.”
“Hostetter knew him, then?” inquired Chip quickly.
“They was friends,” replied the constable. Frank turned.
“Carson was at Randall’s room just before I left, Colonel Gunn. He departed across the campus, and he might be easily located, I think.”
“Ah—by all means!”
The principal hastily summoned his orderly and ordered a dozen cadets dispatched in search of Carson, who could be easily recognized by means of his black eye and patch. Randall was looking at the floor, a tumult of emotions in his face.
How much Merry knew of the attempt to drug him, he could not guess. Yet Frank was doing his best to help him out of his scrape. The Southerner was smitten with remorse and self-condemnation, but dared say nothing.
“We’ll clear you, old man,” said Merry warmly. “This might be a plot to ruin your character—and knowing Carson, as I do, I would not put it past him.”
He briefly recounted to Colonel Gunn his late experiences at Carsonville. The principal, however, did not agree that there could be any plot against Randall, and Frank himself had only suggested it as a forlorn hope.