Ready rose, reseated himself, wiggled the fingers of his right hand from the armhole of his vest, and winked again.
“What makes you so confident?” Dick demanded, while Bert was looking over the list.
“I have been commanded to tell it not in Gath, to publish it not in the streets of Askelon, yclept New Haven; but in these rooms——”
He arose, walked solemnly about as if peering for a possible eavesdropper, peeped under the lounge and under some chairs, and came back.
“Put all you can beg, borrow, or steal on this proposition. It’s a dead sure thing. The bet isn’t that our team will win the game, but that our team will play. We’re going to clean out the boasters that have been tantalizingly shoving their money under our noses—clean them out so slick that they won’t have enough to take them home for the Christmas holidays. Why do I know?”
He looked around again, lowered his voice and funneled his hands.
“I know, because Charles Conrad Merriwell has himself bet a little roll with a New London man that Frank will accept the challenge and will beat the New London challengers!”
Both Starbright and Dashleigh stared. The thing was unbelievable.
“Are you sure?” Dick asked.
“Sure! The fellow came to the New Haven House to-night, made the offer in the presence of a dozen men, shook the cold cash under Charles Merriwell’s nose, and Merriwell, like the true sporting man and gentleman that he is, promptly covered the money.”