Mr. Potter sank his voice. “See the contractor,” he said, “and buy him off. For a hundred dollars——”
“A hundred dollars!” exclaimed his hearer. “Where’d we get it?”
“Pshaw, we’ll clear up two hundred easy if we can pull the game off!”
“Well,” replied Dick doubtfully, “but even so I don’t believe Mullin would dare to do it.”
“Supposing, though, his men went on strike?” suggested the other with a wink. “He couldn’t help himself then, could he?”
“N-no, but—I don’t like it, Mr. Potter. It’s pretty under-hand, it seems to me. After all, we don’t have to play that game, and——”
“Don’t have to! You bet you have to! Look at that cup! Look at all the printing we’ve done; posters, score-cards, tickets! Look at——” But words failed him and he seized his hat from the table. “Here, I’ve got to get busy! That Irishman may be plowing up the field right now! See you later, Lovering!”
And Mr. Potter dashed off again.
Lanny called up a few minutes later to ask about developments and after that Tom Haley wanted information. Dick had no hopeful news to impart, however. Gordon and Fudge came around just as Dick was starting for the Point—by way of Brentwood—and walked with him as far as the corner of A Street. There Gordon drew Fudge back and reminded him that three was a crowd. Dick had the grace to blush.
“Oh, come on,” he said awkwardly. “Don’t be a silly chump!”