“Bah! It’s only a flash in the pan. He can’t last. I think I could make him quit if I wanted to.”
“How?”
“Would you join me in a little trick if we could?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?” and Avondale looked curiously at his companion.
“I mean that red paint business and the spoiling of the ancient manuscripts. If it was known who did it he’d get fired.”
“You don’t mean to say Matson had a hand in that!” cried Avondale aghast.
“I’m not saying anything. But if it could be shown that he did it, he’d not pitch for Yale—that’s sure. Shall I say any more? Remember I’m making no cracks yet. But I know some things about Matson no one else knows.” This was true enough, but Avondale did not take it in the sense in which it could have been truthfully said, but, rather, as Weston meant he should—wrongly.
Now Avondale had one fault. He was too easily led. He was brilliant, full of promise, and a jolly chap—hail-fellow-well-met with everyone, and that is not the best thing in the world, though it makes for temporary popularity. Avondale was his own worst enemy, and many a time he had not the courage to say “no!” when the utterance of it would have saved him from trouble. So when Weston thus temptingly held out the bait, Avondale nibbled.
“Shall I say any more?” went on the other. “Remember, you’ve got to be as tight as a drum on this.”