“No,” returned the traveling man regretfully. “I never seen Diggs close up, but I could recognize that wind-up a mile away. I couldn’t swear to it very well, though.”
“Then the game has to go on,” said Frank.
At this point the man next to his informant, who had been listening, chipped in the conversation.
“Old man Carson is betting all kinds of money, Merriwell. If that fellow is really Diggs, would it queer the bets?”
“Not exactly,” said Merry. “If we could prove it, of course, the bets would be off, and so would the game. But I see no chance of proving it.”
“Well, I’m backin’ your crowd,” went on the man anxiously. “I had a bet at even money with the colonel’s son, but he must have got cold feet. He ain’t showed up.”
“Was it much of a bet?” asked Frank.
“A thousand even.”
“You’d better keep your money in your pocket,” advised Chip, turning away. “Betting is mighty poor business, especially where the Carson crowd is mixed up in it.”
He stood looking across the field, suddenly thoughtful. A thousand dollars—and Bully Carson also had boasted that he had a thousand in cash to bet—and Hostetter had been robbed of exactly that amount!