CHAPTER XXVIIIIN DESPERATE STRAITS.
Twenty-four hours later Dick Merriwell was confident that some malign influence was at work on Jack Kenny’s mind combating his own strenuous efforts to bring about concord between him and Don Tempest. Some one was doing his level best to keep the quarter back constantly stirred up in his ire against the captain of the varsity, so that it required every bit of Merriwell’s patience and perseverance to prevent an open break.
He had arrived at this conclusion simply from a keen sense of observation. He knew Jack Kenny well enough to be perfectly sure that he was not the sort of fellow to harbor a grudge to the extent which he was fostering this one. He was a man who would be apt to flare up in a swift outburst of wrath, but it was not at all like him to develop this sullen, sneering, backbiting streak which had been apparent for the past few days.
Some one must be egging him on; some one was deliberately encouraging him to combat Tempest at every possible point; and that person must be going about his underhand work with amazing skill and forethought. His method of procedure must be so insidious that Kenny himself had no idea he was being worked; for at no time did Dick question for an instant the quarter back’s loyalty to his team or to his college.
Who this some one was, Merriwell had no idea. It must be a man who either had a personal grudge against Tempest himself, or else had some vital reason for bringing about an open rupture in the Yale team before the great contest of the season.
Dick could not close his eyes to the fact that this last condition of affairs was in a fair way to be brought about unless something speedily intervened to prevent it. Little by little the fellows had been taking sides in the unfortunate disagreement between the captain and the quarter back.
The strain of having to keep a constant watch on his tongue was beginning to tell on Tempest and showed in a loosening of the grip he had on the team and a resulting decrease in its efficiency.
Quick to notice this, many of the fellows blamed it altogether upon Tempest. They began to question his ability among themselves and wonder whether his methods were right and whether he was going to lead them to victory on Saturday.
Doubt and hesitation and suspicion were rife on all sides. It would take but the merest breath to add discouragement to their number; and once a team starts in with a doubt as to its ability to win the handicap against it is tremendous.
Merriwell did his best to instill encouragement and hope into their failing spirits, but, under the peculiar condition of affairs, he was almost helpless to do any good in that line. Kenny had started the ball rolling, and he was the only one who could stop its progress. If he could only be brought to his senses and grant to Tempest his cheerful, willing obedience and coöperation, the trouble might possibly be stopped.
Men would see that his confidence in the captain was restored, and, in their turn, might be inspired to renewed hope and consequent endeavor.
To this end, therefore, Dick bent every effort; but he was unsuccessful. Kenny listened to his words, but was not convinced; and Merriwell knew that some one else was working against him.
By Friday night he was almost certain that this some one was Clarence Carr, who, for the past few days, had been spending every possible moment in the company of the quarter back. He was the only unknown quantity among Kenny’s acquaintance. The others were all beyond reproach, and at last, incredible as the thought was, Dick became convinced that Carr was doing his very utmost to bring about a rupture in the Yale team, so that Harvard would gain the victory.
What the broker’s motive was he could not guess. There were a dozen reasons why he might wish to bring such a thing about, and Dick did not waste much time over that. The great thing was to convince Kenny that Carr was meddling, and that he had an ulterior motive for wishing the defeat of Yale; and this was almost impossible.
The man’s manner was frank and open. He spoke enthusiastically of Yale’s chances for victory, even offering to lay a little money on the blue. He referred often, though with apparent casualness, to his brother’s intimate connection with the university, and with football; and more than once he had been heard to wish that he had taken his degree at New Haven instead of Providence.
Dick easily found an opportunity of meeting him; for he seemed to have no friends in town except the college boys, with whom he had grown to be rather popular. He found the fellow a keen, shrewd man of the world, likewise an interesting and amusing talker, and possessed of a certain degree of attractiveness. It seemed almost incredible that such a man as he—polished, refined, and gentlemanly—could stoop to the underhand methods which Merriwell suspected. And yet, if he were not to blame for influencing Kenny, who was?
Having met Carr, Merriwell realized full well the utter impossibility of convincing the quarter back of his double-dealing, without absolute proof. And where was he to get that proof, when all he had to go by was his own intuition?
Supper on Friday night was a dismal meal. The practice that afternoon had been particularly dispiriting and lacking in vim and go. Fullerton had bellowed himself hoarse and had been reduced to open wrath at the wretched showing made by many of the team. Don Tempest, white-faced and with set teeth, had struggled desperately to prevent himself giving way to a furious outburst of rage at the aggravating Kenny, who seemed even more possessed of the devil than usual.
Everything seemed to be at sixes and sevens, and it was scarcely to be wondered that gloomy, discouraged faces were the rule that night, as the fellows thought of what the morrow might bring forth and groaned inwardly.
Merriwell, Buckhart, and one or two others tried to combat the persistent gloom, but without avail. They, themselves, were not feeling any too sure about things, and their cheering words were not of the most convincing order.
Consequently, the meal went on to a silent finish; and then, as chairs were pushed back, and the men arose, Tempest stopped them with a quick gesture.
“Just a minute, fellows,” he said, in a low tone. “There’ll be a short meeting of the team and subs in the gym at eight o’clock. Please be there, all of you.”
At Merriwell’s suggestion there was to be a last effort made to rally the failing spirits of the men and make them realize how grave was the situation. It was all he could think of at the moment, and he meant to take the floor himself and bring all his power of eloquence to bear to try and brace them up. But, first, he intended to have another whack at Kenny and see if by hook or crook he couldn’t bring him to his senses.
“If I could only prove something against that traitor, Carr,” he said to himself, as he crossed the campus with Brad.
Suddenly he gave a start.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud. “I might try that!”
“Try what?” inquired Buckhart. “What are you talking about, anyhow, pard?”
“Nothing much,” Merriwell answered, as he quickened his pace. “I was just thinking.”
He did not speak another word until they reached the rooms. The moment the door was closed he dashed into the closet, and, fumbling around for a few minutes in the dark, presently emerged with an armful of clothes and a flat, oblong box.
With wondering eyes the Texan watched him swiftly strip off his suit and array himself in the one he had resurrected from the depths of the closet. With ever-growing curiosity, he saw his chum open the box and take out a jar of cold cream and some sticks of grease paints. Then he could contain himself no longer.
“What in thunder are you up to now?” he exploded.
“I’m going to make a last effort to bring that little idiot Kenny around,” he replied. “If it succeeds, I’ll tell you all about it. If it don’t——”
He finished the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders and caught up a stick of grease paint. Brad’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he watched the rapid transformation going on before his eyes. A touch here, a line there, worked wonders. Some false eyebrows, skillfully attached, made the disguise still more perfect.
At last, throwing down the hand glass in which he had been inspecting the whole effect, Dick snatched up a disreputable derby from the chair, and, clapping it on his head, tore open the door and disappeared, leaving his chum staring at the closed portal in a dazed fashion.
“Well, I’ll—be—hanged!” he exclaimed presently.