Merriwell’s interest in that game was naturally intense; and yet, it was not so intense as it was in that affair of Darrel’s. The colonel had hinted that Darrel was to be benefited by Merriwell’s watching Guffey. Keeping an eye on the other coach had started something, right at the very beginning of the game.
Like lightning Merry’s mind marshaled a few facts and evolved a startling theory. Hawtrey had said that Guffey had seen the game on the preceding Saturday. Merriwell’s thirty dollars had vanished during that game. Now Guffey had produced some of the loose change that had formed part of the “thirty.” It was money that could not readily be passed, so here was a possible reason for Guffey’s keeping it by him.
The pockets of the coat were emptied while the garment lay on the grand-stand benches. Instantly Merriwell thought of the dressing rooms under the stand, and of their possibilities as a point of observation. He thought, too, how easy it would be for a thief to reach out and draw the coat through between the seats, go into the garment at his leisure, and then replace it where it had been left by its owner.
Everything pointed to the fact that Simeon Guffey had taken the money. Frank had to believe the evidence. He stepped closer to the Gold Hill coach, who was watching the game with an absorbed air.
Ophir had got the Gold Hill kick-off and had run the ball back past the middle of the field, losing it aftertwo downs by an on-side kick that failed to pan out as expected.
“Now, then, Gold Hill, smash into ’em! Get the steam engine to work! Flatten ’em out!” roared the visiting rooters.
“Hold ’em, Ophir!” came encouragingly from the local ranks.
Gold Hill smashed into a stone wall when Ophir took the defensive; but a breach was made, and Mingo, the Gold Hill half back, made some good gains by clever work. But Gold Hill, strongly favored by the wind, elected to punt in the hope of getting within scoring distance.
The ball gyrated through a long, high, aërial arc, to be captured on the Ophir fifteen-yard line and hustled back to the twenty-five yards before the runner was downed.
“Whoop-ya!” howled cowboys in the Ophir crowd; “eat ‘em up, you Ophir gophers! Swaller ’em, boots an’ chaps! You can do it!”
“I got a ten-case note what says they kain’t do it!” yelped a sporty miner from the Gold Hill benches.
“Make it a hundred an’ I’ll go ye!”
But evidently the other man couldn’t dig up the hundred.
Guffey, crouching on the side lines, was absently picking pebbles out of the sand and flipping them about. He seemed surprised by Ophir’s showing. Merry crouched down at his side.
“You’ve done wonders with that bunch since last week, Merriwell,” remarked Guffey.
He must have spoken before he thought. The next instant his jaw muscles flexed angrily, and his pallid face showed something like consternation.
“What do you know about our work last week, Guffey?” Frank asked.
He was so close to the other coach that it was not difficult for him to make himself heard in spite of the tumult caused by the spectators. One side or the other was howling and cheering, so that the uproar was almost continuous.
“Only—what I’ve heard,” answered Guffey, with some nervousness and constraint.
“You heard our eleven was poor?”
Guffey affected not to catch the question. He pretended to be wrapped up in the playing.
Ophir, from the twenty-five yards, had failed to gain, and punted. Gold Hill got the ball on her forty-yard line, and, after two trials that fell short, kicked again. The ball sailed over the goal line, and Ophir touched it back.
There came a bit of a lull. Frank pushed closer to Guffey.
“I say, Guffey,” said he, “will you let me look at that half dollar that was used for the toss?”
The Gold Hill coach turned his deathlike face toward Frank, and peered at him with suspicion in his faded blue eyes.
“You think it’s a fake coin, eh?” he demanded; “one of the heads-I-win-tails-you-lose sort, eh?”
There was a snarl, venomous as it was uncalled for, back of the words.
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Frank answered sharply. “I just want to look at it, that’s all.”
“There you are.”
Guffey thrust his hand into his pocket, jerked out a coin, and flung it down in front of Frank. The latter picked it up.
It was not a plugged coin, nor was it minted in the year of Merry’s birth. Guffey had substituted another piece for the one in question.
“This isn’t the half they used for the toss, Guffey,” said Frank.
“I’m a liar, am I?” demanded Guffey hotly. “What are you trying to do, Merriwell? Kick up a row?”
“No,” was the response, “I don’t want any row here to-day. Just let me see the half dollar that was used for the toss.”
“You’ve seen it.”
With that Guffey arose from his crouching position, and, with a scowl, moved off to another place. Frank knew that the fellow was guilty. He had seen Frank eying the plugged coin when it dropped in front of him, and he had reasoned that he might have recognized it. Frank’s request to see the silver piece was further proof to Guffey that he had developed a suspicious interest in it. Hence, Guffey’s motive for substituting another half dollar for the right one.
Ophir, after the touchback, had elected to put the pigskin in scrimmage, on the twenty-five yard line, but was soon back at its old punting tricks. Gold Hill’s right half, Poindexter by name, misjudged the ball. As it slipped from the ends of his fingers, he was pushed aside by an Ophir lad, who got it under him on Gold Hill’s forty-yard line.
Ophir went wild. The stands fairly roared, hats were tossed in the air, and yells and cheers made the whole place a pandemonium.
“What’s up between Guffey and you, Chip?” queried Clancy, in Merriwell’s ear.
“Why?” returned Merry.“What makes you think there’s anything up, Clan?”
“Blazes! Why, I can’t help but see when it’s going on right under my eyes.”
“Watch the game, Clan,” said Merry. “If I have to leave the field, you stand by to send in the substitutes.”
“Look here,” muttered the excited Clancy, “you don’t intend to clear out before the game’s over, do you?”
“I don’t know what will happen, Clan, but if I leave it will be to follow Guffey. Don’t ask any questions. I’m playing a bigger game than this little match at football.”
The red-headed fellow was all up in the air. His freckled face reflected his conflicting emotions.
Frank, turning to keep track of Guffey, saw Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, beckoning to him. He got up and walked over to the deputy’s side.
“I’m keepin’ an eye on that Guffey person, Merriwell,” said Hawkins. “You don’t need to bother.”
“What are you watching him for, Hawkins?” Frank asked.
“Because I don’t like his looks. He’s a pill.”
“He’s the Gold Hill coach, and you’re not to interfere with him, you know.”
“Mebby not, but what’re you baitin’ him for?”
They were both unconsciously peering toward Guffey. At that moment, the Gold Hill coach turned suddenly and gave the two of them a full, level stare. When he turned away, he acted like a person who is considerably wrought up and trying to conceal it.
“Wow!” chuckled Hawkins. “Say, son, he don’t like seein’ you and me in talk, like this. He’s makin’ a bluff that he don’t care—but it’s a bluff. Why does he care? You better tell me.”
“Not now,” said Frank, and walked away.
Meanwhile the quarter had ended with the ball onGold Hill’s fifty-yard line. On the first play, Bradlaugh, left half for Ophir, carried the oval for a ten-yard gain. Little by little, steady as fate, the ball crept to within ten yards of the Gold Hill goal line.
Frank’s interest, for a while, almost turned from Guffey to the ball. It looked as though Ophir was surely due to make a touchdown.
The spectators had gone crazy with excitement. Gold Hill’s players were fighting like so many tigers; and then, out of the ruck of fighting and the tangle of sweating players, the ball soared up and over the field. Ophir groaned and Gold Hill began to jubilate.
That was the only time either goal had been in serious danger, and the half ended with the ball at about the place where it had been when first put into play.
Merriwell led his men to the dressing rooms.
“Fine work!” said he. “You’re going to get a touchdown in the next half, and Gold Hill isn’t going to score at all. I’ve got a hunch—one of the red-hot kind that always pans out. Mayburn, you’re a crackajack! Spink, just keep up the good work! Brad, you’re a star! What’s the matter, Deever?”
Lafe Deever, right end, was limping.
“Twisted my ankle,” said he, “but I reckon it won’t amount to much.”
“Take off your shoe and let’s see.”
Merry shook his head when he examined the exposed foot. The skin was broken and the ankle looked red and angry.
“Let Banks report to the referee, Handy,” said Frank. “Sorry, Deever,” he added, to the crestfallen end, “but we can’t take chances, you know. You’ve won glory enough in the first half, anyhow.”
Merry pulled Handy aside.
“If anything happens that I have to leave the field before the game is over, Handy,” said Frank, “Clancy will be on deck.”
“But you’re not going to leave——”
“Not if I can help it. There’s something important going on—something not down on the bills—and I can’t neglect it even for this football game.”
With that, Merry hurried from the gym. The first man he encountered on the field was Hawkins.
“Has Guffey come out of the Gold Hill dressing rooms yet?” he asked.
“Well, I reckon,” grinned the deputy. “He came out with Jode Lenning, an’ the two walked over to’rd the west end of the grand stand. There they are now, in a close confab.”
Frank sauntered carelessly in the direction of Guffey and Lenning.