“Don’t be afraid of Merriwell,” laughed Hollingsworth, with a significance that Huntley did not catch. “He won’t beat anything.”
“You don’t seem to know what the fellow can do. He’s a wonder, and he wins at anything he tries if given a fair show.”
“But how can he have a fair show with you when you know a short cut through Dead Timber Jungle and another over Ragged Hill? Seems to me you’re worrying too much about him.”
“I tell you that you don’t know him. He’s out on the course now, and I’ll wager he’s looking for short cuts. It’s likely he’ll find the way over Ragged Hill, though he may not strike the one through the jungle. If he should discover both those cuts—well, unless something else stopped him, he’d surely carry off that trophy. I tell you I don’t intend to take any chances. He’ll never win. In order to make sure of that I decided not to cover the course to-day and came here. I’ve arranged it.”
“How?” asked Hollingsworth.
Huntley glanced toward the barkeeper, and then whispered:
“I’ve engaged two ruffians to waylay and sandbag him.”
The trainer whistled softly.
“Oh, you have?”
“Yes. I found the men for it. Twenty-five a piece I had to pay them.”