“Why, they found that feller Carson, and he seems to be drunk, or hurt, or something,” explained the constable hurriedly, as they started out. “One o’ the boys phoned over to the grand stand just before the game ended.”
“That’s bad,” commented Merry. “You don’t know any more?”
The constable did not, except that he had seen Colonel Carson slinking away from the grounds in woeful plight. It was said that the colonel had lost a large sum of money on the game.
With the orderly, they hastened to the riding hall. Grouped in the rear, they found a small crowd of cadets, in the midst of whom stood Colonel Gunn and Randall, while a motionless figure could be made out on the ground.
“Ha—Merriwell!” cried the principal, who had recovered his momentarily lost ponderous manner. “Here is the—ah—individual of whom we were in search. He appears to have been in this posture for some little time.”
Merry and the constable pushed through, to see Bully Carson lying on the ground. He was motionless, and was breathing stertorously. Although his one good eye did not open, he seemed dimly conscious that others were around him.
“Go ’way!” he muttered thickly. “Go ’way!”
“He don’t look drunk, exactly,” observed the constable, “and he ain’t hurt.”
“No, he does not—ah—appear to be under the influence of liquor. Perhaps he is merely—ah—reposing in the arms of Morpheus.”
“No, Murphy was lookin’ for him to-day,” rejoined the constable, referring to his assistant. Colonel Gunn’s lips twitched.