“What do you suppose was the reason for that?” asked Jim.
“I’m afraid he’s been drinking again,” conjectured Joe, regretfully. “His nerves seem to be all unstrung. When he looked at me, you might think that he saw a ghost.”
“Perhaps he did,” said Jim, slowly but significantly.
“What do you mean?” asked Joe, quickly.
“Just what I say,” answered Jim. “Perhaps he thought that you were—well, in the doctor’s hands, and that what he saw must be a ghost.”
“You don’t mean——”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Joe, in horror. “Lemblow, Hupft, McCarney? Yes! But Iredell! A man on our own team! A man we’ve played with for years! No, Jim, I can’t believe it possible.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Jim. “I hate even to think of it. I hope I’m wrong. But drink, you know, will weaken a man’s moral fiber until he’s capable of anything. Iredell’s been steadily going to the dogs of late. Perhaps he’s fallen in with McCarney’s gang. He knows all of them, and a drinking man isn’t particular about his company. Let a man hate you and then let him drink, and you have a mighty bad combination. Just suppose Iredell was in the plot. Suppose he knew that rattler was sent to you yesterday. Wouldn’t he act just as he did when he saw you turn up safe and sound to-day?”