CHAPTER XVAN UNSEEN WITNESS.

CHAPTER XVAN UNSEEN WITNESS.

Parker lost no time in telling Foote about the confession that was in Dick Merriwell’s possession. Bold as the football star had been in his talk with the universal coach, he was far from being as easy in his mind as he had been in his speech. He knew that the signed confession, as long as Merriwell had it, was a constant menace to him. There was no way in which he could escape the consequences if Dick chose to use it against him. Carpenter, always a weakling, had been so terrified when he found that Dick knew all he had done, that Parker’s hold upon him had been completely lost, and Shesgren, as it had turned out, had never really understood what was going on, and had deserted him as soon as he got a hint of the real plot against Jim Phillips.

Foote heard the story with disgust.

“Just like you,” he said contemptuously. “That’s what you got for trying to beat a man like Merriwell by yourself. He’s too clever for you, and you ought to have known it before you started in. I wonder that you had sense enough to keep them from recognizing you when you carried Phillips off in Boston. That was a crazy stunt, anyhow. It’s a mighty good thing for you he got away. If you’d kept him there until the game was over, they would never have dropped the business until they had found out who was responsible. It was only because it failed that they were willing to let you off. That was one time when your foolishness was a good thing for you.”

Parker was really frightened, and he stood Foote’s abuse without a word of protest. He had realized that he could, unaided, do nothing against Merriwell, and he was afraid to take a chance of causing Foote to turn against him.

“I’ll have to get hold of that confession, of course,” said Foote. “That’s for my own sake, as much as for yours. I may get more or less mixed up with you, and if they feel like using that against you, it might do me some harm. If I hadn’t made up my mind to work this thing, though, I’d drop it right now. I’m afraid of you, Parker. You’ve made such a mess of the business since you started in, that I don’t feel safe with such a partner.

“I haven’t any idea of running any chances myself, but I can’t tell what you’ll let me in for. You’ve got to promise not to make a move without consulting me hereafter, and you’ve got to tell me everything you’ve done, too. Look at this business of the confession. You didn’t tell me a word about that registered-letter business, though I’d guessed that you had something to do with it. I don’t suppose you’d have peeped about it now if you hadn’t been frightened by this fellow Merriwell.”

Foote walked up and down the room, thinking hard, while Parker, who really wanted to kick him out, waited anxiously.

“What sort of paper did you write that confession on?” he demanded finally.

Parker went to his desk at once, and produced a pad of blue paper. Foote’s face lighted up.

“Good business!” he said. “That’s such unusual paper that our friend isn’t likely to have another piece just like it about his rooms. Now fold a piece of that just the way your confession was folded—see?”

Parker obeyed.

“All right,” said Foote. “You’ll have to make up to Merriwell. That was plain idiocy you showed when you saw him to-day—defying him openly. You can’t do a thing against him in the open. Now, I want you to go to his rooms, to-night. Apologize. Tell him you’re sorry that you acted the way you have. Explain that you’ve thought it all over, and have decided that he’s right. Carry this with you.”

He handed Parker the folded blue sheet.

“And look around. If you can manage to be alone in his room for a minute or two, try to substitute this for the other paper. He won’t be apt to look at your precious confession unless he thinks he’s going to need it, and then he won’t be able to prove who took it.”

“I can’t bluff him into thinking I’m going to reform,” said Parker sourly. “You said yourself he was too clever for me. He’ll see through that in a minute.”

“No, he won’t,” said Foote, with assurance. “He’d see through anything you could think up yourself, but he doesn’t think you’ve got sense enough to think of trying to fool him that way, and he’ll believe you, especially if you don’t slop over too much. You do as I say. But remember, you’ve got to bring that confession back here or I’ll drop the whole business.”

Parker growled, but obeyed. He took the blue paper, slipped it into his pocket, and went off in search of Dick Merriwell. The universal coach was in his rooms, and received him with perfect friendliness. But he seemed a little surprised.

“I’ve come to say that I behaved like a fool to-day, Mr. Merriwell,” Parker began ungraciously. “I was wrong all through, and I want to tell you that I’ve made up my mind to take my medicine and do the best I can to play on the team in the fall.”

The universal coach eyed him keenly. Dick, to tell the the truth, was rather puzzled. He hated to distrust any one, and he had often proved that when a man who had done wrong sincerely repented, he could count upon his friendship and aid to keep straight afterward. Dick wanted to think as well as possible of Parker, and to help him to undo the wrong he had done to himself and to Yale, but it seemed to him that the transition from the defiant, bullying Parker of the afternoon was a little too sudden.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Parker,” Dick said finally. He had not been able to glean much from his study of the football player’s face and eyes. Parker was sullen in his appearance, but that was natural. He might be sorry and ashamed, but still be embarrassed and sensitive. “There’s room for all of us in Yale, and there’s plenty of work for all of us to do. That’s why I was so sorry when it seemed to me that you were putting your own desires and ambitions above the needs of the whole college.”

“Well, I’m through with that,” said Parker.

His eyes had been wandering about the room, and protruding from a pigeonhole in Dick’s desk, he had seen the edges of the hated blue sheet on which he had written his confession. He could see it, but Dick was seated at the desk himself, and there was no chance for Parker to abstract it without detection. But his mind had a certain cunning, though he was by no means as clever as Foote, and he evolved a plan for getting the coach out of the room.

“I thought, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “that you might have a copy of the changes in the football rules that were made at that last meeting in New York. I wanted to study them a bit, and I’ve lost my copy.”

“I can help you out there,” said Dick, jumping up hastily. “I’ve got an extra copy, and I’ll be glad to let you have it. Just wait a minute, and I’ll get it for you.”

Dick went quickly into his bedroom. He welcomed this sign of a real interest in the football team, the first which Parker had displayed, and he was glad to be able to grant the junior’s request.

No sooner had Dick left the room, than Parker hastened over to the desk and, quickly snatching out the blue sheet that was exposed, put it in his pocket and substituted the one he had carried.

“That’s a good job,” he said to himself, with much inward satisfaction. “He won’t look at that until to-morrow, and he’ll never be able to tell how that paper was lost. And, gee! but it’s a relief to have that back!”

Parker was intently absorbed in his task—that of a sneak thief, had he stopped to give himself time to think. So absorbed that he had forgotten that the door was open. And he never noticed at all the sound of quiet footsteps that had come up to the door as he made his way to Dick’s desk. But the footsteps had been there. And they had been those of Jack Tempest, the Virginian, who was one of Jim Phillips’ closest friends in Yale.

Jack had seen the whole astounding performance. His first impulse had been to rush in, seize Parker, and call to Dick. But he had been learning caution and diplomacy. He made sure of what was going on, and then, as silently as possible, passed on in the corridor outside the room, until he was safe from observation. There he waited until, a few minutes later, he heard Parker come out and pass down the stairs.

Tempest had not had to wait very long. Parker waited a very short time after the return of Dick Merriwell, with the leaflet the junior had asked him for, and he had gone down the stairs, whistling merrily, to the intense indignation of Tempest. One reason, perhaps, that Tempest was so angry was that Parker had selected as the tune he chose to whistle, “Marching Through Georgia,” a song that still has the power to anger Southern listeners, though it is nearly fifty years since Sherman spread ruin and devastation as he swept with his army from Atlanta to the sea.

Foote was still waiting when Parker returned.

“I got it!” cried Parker, holding up the blue sheet. “Pretty quick work; what?”

“It was all right,” admitted Foote grudgingly. “I didn’t know whether you’d have gumption enough—here, hold on! what are you doing?”

But he sprang toward Parker too late. The junior had torn the sheet into a hundred pieces, delighted at the chance to get rid of the incriminating evidence of his former conspiracy.

“What’s the matter with you?” cried Parker angrily.

“You blamed fool!” yelled Foote. “What did you tear that up for without giving me a chance to look at it? How did you know it was the right one?”

“Oh, shucks!” cried Parker. “Is that all? It’s the right one, right enough. No mistake there. I suppose it would be nice for you to have that. I guess I’d just about as soon let Dick Merriwell keep it as put myself in your power by giving it to you.”

He leered at Foote, and the other had no answer, for it was with some thought of being able to control Parker that he had planned to possess himself of the paper.

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