CHAPTER X.

IN DOLAN’S CAFÉ.

Morrison watched the car disappear down the street, and clenching his fist, shook it fiercely in the air.

“I’ll get even with you yet, you meddling fool!” he rasped.

He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his bleeding chin. It was not a bad cut, but the humiliation, of being knocked down in a public thoroughfare by almost the first blow struck, ate into his very soul and made him grind his teeth in a blind, bitter rage.

To have suffered at the hands of Dick Merriwell added fuel to the blaze of his resentment. The happenings of that afternoon had made him hate the Yale man almost as much as he did Gardiner, whom he had always disliked, but he had come out of that affair with flying colors. He had crippled the Forest Hills team so that they would stand no show whatever against the mine boys; likely they would have to forfeit the game for it would be impossible for them to find both pitcher and catcher at so short a notice and his heart rejoiced at having evened up his score with Gardiner at last.

But on the heels of that triumph came this new disgrace, the very thought of which made him clench his teeth and long fiercely to have that Yale upstart at his mercy, somewhere, somehow, so that he could pound the fellow until his arms were tired.

He had no desire to stand up against Merriwell in a fair fight. Wild with rage as he had been, Morrison realized that the Yale man had enough science to handle him with one hand. But he would give almost everything he possessed to get even with Merriwell in some perfectly safe way, which carried no risk with it. Of that sort of stuff was the former pitcher of the Forest Hills team.

He was aroused by the sound of footsteps and, glancing up, saw several men coming toward him. He did not linger, but hurrying to the near-by corner, dodged into a side street, and made his way swiftly to the car lines on Woodland Avenue.

Swinging himself on the rear end of an open car, he sat down in the shadow. He had intended going directly to Dolan’s Café for a bracer, but just before the car reached that corner the colored lights of a drug store caught his eyes, and, leaping off, he went inside.

Here he got some court-plaster which he applied to the cut on his chin, explaining to the clerk that he had fallen and struck his face on the curbing. That done, he started for Dolan’s.

Almost at the threshold he came face to face with George Burgess and Roland Hewett, who greeted him warmly.

“We’ve been looking all over for you, Morrie,” the former said quickly. “Where the mischief have you been?”

“Oh, up street a ways,” Morrison returned vaguely. “Let’s go in.”

They pushed through the swinging doors, passing the bar, and went on into a large room beyond, which was the distinguishing feature of Dolan’s.

The place was long and lofty, with walls and floor of marble, and was filled with little tables, set around with heavy mission chairs. It was brightly lit with many electric clusters which brought out in their full crudity the gaudy decorations and flashy pictures.

But to the cheap sport of Forest Hills, there was nothing gaudy about it. It represented to him the very acme of luxury, and night after night he would spend the evening there, with others of his kind, in talk and loud-mouthed bragging, smoking cigarettes and stretching to the utmost limit the time allowance of a five-cent glass of beer.

For some vague, inscrutable reason he thought that this was manly. He never seemed to realize what a poor fool he was to waste his short leisure hours in that foul atmosphere, poisoning his lungs, his stomach, and his mind at the same time. He never seemed to know that a man is not valued for his ability to smoke and drink, but for what he is--for what he has done that is worth while and uplifting in this world.

The three fellows sat down at one of the tables, and Morrison touched the bell.

“What’s the matter with your chin, Morrie?” Hewett asked curiously, as he settled himself in his chair.

The dark-haired fellow raised his hand carelessly to the court-plaster.

“Oh, that, you mean?” he asked nonchalantly. “I cut myself shaving.”

The waiter appeared.

“What’ll you have, fellows?” Morrison went on. “I’m going to take a rye high ball.”

“Beer for me.”

The other two spoke together.

Burgess took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and passed them around. They all lit up, and presently the drinks were brought and set down before them.

“Have you heard the latest?” Burgess inquired, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“What latest?” asked Morrison.

“Why, about the team. It didn’t take Gardiner long to fill out places.”

As Morrison put his glass down on the table, his hand trembled a little.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Burgess gave a short laugh.

“He’s got Merriwell to pitch, and that fellow Buckhart to catch.”

“What?” exploded Morrison.

His face had paled a little and he looked as if he could not believe his senses.

“Yes, that’s straight goods,” Burgess assured. “He’s even filled Hewett’s place with Tucker, another of that crowd, who, I understand, has played short on the varsity nine. Not bad for a pick-up, is it?”

For a moment the former pitcher of the Forest Hills seemed unable to utter a word. His face purpled and his eyes flashed with rage. The veins on his forehead stood out like cords.

Suddenly he burst out in such a frenzied volley of cursing that his two companions looked at him in astonishment.

“Say, Morrie, ease up a bit,” cautioned Burgess. “Pretty quick we’ll be thrown out of here.”

“Yes, what’s the use of losing your temper that way,” put in Hewett nervously. “The thing’s done, and it can’t be helped now.”

Morrison glared at him.

“Who wouldn’t lose his temper?” he frothed. “You would, if you had a little more red blood in your veins. It’s enough to drive a man crazy to have this upstart from Yale step in and get all the credit after I’ve pitched the whole season and done all the hard work.”

“Now, look here, Morrie,” George Burgess said sharply, “there’s no sense in cussing Merriwell that way. He’s no more to blame than I am. After you had stepped out it was only decent for him to volunteer to take your place, especially when Gardiner’s bringing him out to the field started the whole row.”

Morrison took a gulp from his high ball and set down the glass with such violence that some of the liquid slopped over on the table.

“Oh, so you’re going back on me, are you?” he sneered. “Maybe you’d like to boot-lick Gardiner and get back on the team.”

The stout fellow flushed a little and a dangerous look came into his small eyes.

“That will about do for you,” he said in a tone of suppressed anger. “You know I’m no quitter.”

Several men entered the room at that moment, and, as Morrison’s eyes fell on one of them, he calmed down suddenly.

“There’s Bill McDonough,” he said in a low tone.

Burgess nodded.

“So I see. I wonder what he’s doing here. Old Fairchilds is daffy about close training.”

The man to whom they referred seated himself at a table near them and ordered vichy. Apparently one of his companions joked him about the drink, for he grinned broadly, showing a gaping hole in his upper jaw where two front teeth were missing.

“You betcher life it won’t be that ter-morrow night,” he said loudly. “After we’ve wiped up the ground with them dudes, training is broke, and it’s me for the beer can. Gee! I wisht I could have a schooner ter-night. I got a thirst a yard long.”

He was a big, burly, rough-looking fellow, with a bull neck and amazingly long arms. A jagged scar, running from the edge of his close-cropped, stubby hair almost to the corner of his hard mouth, gave a sinister expression to his unattractive face. It was not the face of a man one would care about encountering in a lonely place on a dark night.

While McDonough did not exactly live up to his tough appearance, there were yet vague stories afloat concerning him which were not the most creditable. Nothing had ever been proved against him, but where there’s smoke, there is usually some fire; and there was a general impression in Forest Hills that Bill McDonough would allow few things to stand between him and the accomplishment of a purpose.

He was one of the foremen at the Mispah Mine, the acknowledged leader of the mine boys, and the star pitcher on Orren Fairchilds’ baseball team.

There was a speculative look in Morrison’s dark eyes as he watched the fellow drink his vichy at a gulp and then call for more.

Then a sudden idea flashed into his mind, and he leaned toward his two companions.

“Say, fellows,” he whispered, “I’ve a good mind to call Bill over and tell him about this business of Merriwell’s pitching to-morrow.”

Burgess frowned a bit.

“What good will that do?” he asked.

Morrison hesitated for an instant.

“Well,” he said significantly, “you know Bill’s reputation. If he should pick a fight with Merriwell, or do something equally effective, Gardiner would be minus a pitcher.”

The stout fellow leaned back in his chair and surveyed his friend curiously.

“Sometimes you’re one too many for me, Morrie,” he said slowly. “Where do you get these ideas, anyhow? Would you really think of doing a thing like that?”

Morrison looked a little annoyed.

“You’re too finicky altogether, George,” he returned. “I shouldn’t be doing anything out of the way by simply telling McDonough that this Merriwell is going to take my place in the box to-morrow.”

“Oh, you know well enough what I mean,” Burgess retorted. “What’s your object in telling him? Because you hope Bill will do something dirty to prevent Merriwell’s playing.”

“I don’t see anything out of the way about it,” put in Hewett. “It would be an easy way of getting even.”

The stout chap looked at him contemptuously through narrowed lids.

“Quite your style, isn’t it?” he inquired.

Then he turned to Morrison.

“Go ahead and tell him if you’re set on it,” he said shortly. “But I wash my hands of the business. I refuse to be mixed up in it.”

He got up from the table, and, without further words, walked to the door and disappeared.

“George is amusing when he throws one of those virtuous bluffs,” he said sarcastically.

He glanced over at the other table.

“Say, Bill--McDonough,” he called.

The big fellow looked around quickly.

“Oh, hello, Morrison,” he bellowed. “How’s things?”

“Come over here a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.”

“Sure, Mike.”

McDonough arose and, stepping over to the chair Burgess had just vacated, plumped himself down.

“Well, what’s up?” he inquired, with a grin.

“What’ll you have--vichy?”

“Sure. I could drink gallons of the stuff without quenching my thirst.”

Morrison beckoned to a waiter and ordered a siphon of vichy, then he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and surveyed the hulking giant before him.

“I just wanted to give you a little point about the game to-morrow,” he said significantly. “Do you know who’s going to pitch?”

“Sure,” grinned McDonough. “Some guy from Yale College.”

Morrison’s jaw dropped.

“Who told you?” he gasped in astonishment.

“Why, the old man. Who else do you s’pose would?”

“The old man!” Morrison exclaimed in bewilderment. “Fairchilds, you mean? How the deuce did he find out?”

“Give it up. Told us to-night when he come up for practice.”

Morrison was silent for a moment.

“You take it pretty calmly,” he said presently, a morose scowl on his face.

“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded McDonough. “The old man said he was a crackajack, but I guess he won’t get much on yours truly.”

Morrison threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.

“Say, you’re pretty cocky, Bill, aren’t you?” he inquired. “I suppose you think there isn’t a man living that can strike you out. Did you know that this Merriwell is the best amateur pitcher and all-around baseball player in the country. The managers of the big-league teams have had their eyes on him ever since he entered Yale. He could get any price he wanted this minute, if he’d go into professional ball. Why, you’ll be easy fruit. He’ll make pie of you and your whole team. There won’t be any pieces left to pick up. He’ll make a holy show of you to-morrow unless----”

He hesitated, his eyes fixed curiously on the big man’s face, which during that short speech had mirrored a variety of emotions that were passing through the man’s mind. Incredulity, surprise, amazement, uneasiness, and consternation flitted rapidly across it and finally gave place to a sinister look of rage which was not prepossessing.

“Say, what yer giving us?” he said hoarsely.

“The truth,” Morrison returned simply. “He’s all I said he was, and more.”

Taking out his cigarette case, he selected a cigarette, passing the case to Hewett. Lighting up, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed keenly on McDonough’s face.

The big man was staring absently at the table, his heavy brows drawn together in a black scowl. With one square, callous forefinger he traced a pattern with some vichy which had spilled on the polished surface. All at once he raised his head and looked fixedly at Morrison, who gave a slight start at the expression he saw in those sullen orbs.

“Unless--what?” demanded McDonough in a suppressed tone.

Morrison hesitated.

“Unless--well, there’re plenty of ways to stop a man from playing baseball,” he finished lightly.

For a full minute the two looked at each other in silence. It seemed that something was passing from one mind to the other. Then the big fellow arose slowly to his feet.

“Much obliged,” he said shortly.

Without another word he returned to his table, and a moment later Morrison and Hewett passed out through the bar and into the street.

“I--think--I’ll go home,” stammered the latter. “It’s getting late.”

His weak face was a little pale and his hands shook nervously.

“Well, so-long, Hew,” his companion said carelessly. “See you at the game to-morrow.”

Left alone, he strolled aimlessly down the street until he came to the entrance of the Burlington Hotel. There he hesitated for a few moments and finally went up the steps and into the lobby.

As he did so he gave a sudden start. Across the room, seated sidewise on a big leather sofa, was Dick Merriwell. His back was toward the entrance and he was deep in conversation with some one whose face Morrison could not distinguish.

The sofa was one of those large double ones with a high back between the two seats, and, almost without realizing why he did it, Morrison walked softly across the lobby, and sat down on the other side with an air of affected carelessness.

Merriwell was talking, and Morrison could distinguish the words quite plainly.

“You never saw such a baseball crank in your life. I don’t believe he thinks of anything else out of business hours. He says if we come up to the mine at nine to-morrow he’ll have us shown all around.”

Morrison gave a start and his dark eyes gleamed.

“The mine!” he muttered to himself. “They’re going through the mine to-morrow, and McDonough’s foreman on the lower level. What a chance!”

Without stopping to hear more, he sprang up and went hurriedly into the writing room, where he sat down at a small table and drew a sheet of the hotel paper from the rack.

First carefully tearing off the heading, he picked up a pen and wrote rapidly. Then he looked around for a blotter, but there was none in sight.

“Where the deuce do they keep the things?” he muttered angrily.

Finally he jerked open a drawer and found a stack of new ones inside. He snatched up one of them and carefully blotted the scrawl. Then he folded the note and put it in his pocket.

“I must get a plain envelope at the stationer’s,” he murmured, “and then find a boy to take it to Dolan’s before Bill gets away. I rather think you may have an interesting time at the mine to-morrow, my friend.”

As Morrison peered out into the lobby, he was dismayed to find that Merriwell and his friend Buckhart had left the sofa and were talking to the clerk at the desk. His first instinctive impulse was to dodge back into the writing room. Then he gave a muttered exclamation.

“Pshaw! What a loon I am! I’ve got as much right in this hotel as he has, and he’ll never know what I came here for.”

Squaring his shoulders, he stalked toward the entrance, with eyes averted from the desk, and disappeared into the darkness.

“There goes your friend, the pitcher, pard,” Buckhart grinned. “Wonder what that varmint’s doing here.”

Dick shrugged his shoulders as he turned away from the desk.

“Give it up, Brad,” he said carelessly. “I don’t know that I care very much. I want to write a letter to Frank. Will you wait for me, or join Tommy and Bouncer upstairs?”

The big Texan yawned.

“Sure, I’ll wait,” he said. “Might as well scrawl off a note myself, since I’ve got the chance.”

They went into the writing room, and each sat down at a small table. Taking a sheet of paper from the rack, Dick wrote rapidly for several minutes. He was telling Frank what they had been doing for the past few days, and, when he had finished that, he stopped to think out their itinerary for the next week.

“Let’s see,” he murmured meditatively. “We’ll stay here over Sunday, and start Monday morning. By Monday night we ought to be in----”

He stopped, his eyes fixed curiously on the oblong, white blotter which lay before him.

“That’s funny,” he said slowly.

The Texan looked up from his letter.

“What is?”

Dick did not answer at once. He picked up the blotter and scrutinized it closely. It was a fresh one and apparently had been used but once. Evidently some one had written a short note in a heavy, scrawly hand with a stub pen, and blotted it in haste. What had attracted the Yale man’s attention was his own name reversed, which appeared almost at the top of the blotter.

“This is very interesting,” he said at length. “Somebody seems to have been taking my name in vain, and I’m a little curious to see what the connection is.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up, the blotter in one hand. Over the mantel at the other end of the room was a long mirror, and walking across to it, Dick held the blotter up to the glass. Buckhart had also risen and was looking at the reflection over his friend’s shoulder.

“Merriwell,” deciphered Dick slowly; “mine--to-morrow--your chance--miss--want to put--business--pitch.”

The Yale pitcher turned and eyed his friend quizzically.

“This is decidedly interesting,” he remarked. “Even more so than I expected. There’s some more words in between the others that are not very clear, but perhaps we can make something out of them. Get a sheet of paper and a pencil, will you, Brad?”

The Texan made haste to bring paper and pencil, and, laying the former on the mantel shelf, Dick studied the blotter carefully again. Presently he wrote something on the paper and turned again to the blotter.

He kept this up for ten or fifteen minutes in silence, and at the end of that time he picked up the paper and carried it back to one of the desks.

“That’s about all I can make out,” he said, as he sat down and spread the sheet out before him. “Draw up a chair and let’s see how it reads.”

The Texan pulled a chair up, and they bent their heads over the desk.

What they saw was fairly clear. A few letters were missing, but not enough to destroy the sense of the letter.

“Merriwell wi--be--mine to-morrow--ni-- ---- ock. --his--s your chance. --nt miss it--yo-- want to put hi-- --ut of business so--e --an-- pitch ---- nst --ou.”

“That’s as plain as daylight,” Dick said, with satisfaction. “Put in the few letters which are missing, and it will read like this:

“‘Merriwell will be at the mine to-morrow at nine o’clock. This is your chance. Don’t miss it, if you want to put him out of business so he cannot pitch against you.’

“That’s really the most interesting epistle I’ve read in a long time, old fellow,” Merriwell went on. “Short, and to the point. No address, no signature. The plot thickens, Bradley, my boy.”

“It sure does, pard--a-plenty,” growled the Westerner. “I’d like to know the onery varmint that wrote it. I’d make him a whole lot shy about repeating the performance. You hear me softly warble!”

“I’d rather know who it was written to,” Dick said meditatively. “Then I’d know who to look out for.”

He looked at Buckhart with a sudden gleam in his eyes.

“Did you notice where Morrison came from when he went through the lobby a little while ago?” he asked slowly.

The Texan brought his clenched fist down on the desk with a crash that made the pens and inkwells bounce.

“By the great horn spoon!” he exploded. “He came out of this very room. The miserable snake in the grass! He ought to be tarred and feathered, only that’s a heap too good for the coyote.”

Dick smiled quietly.

“I rather thought he might be the one,” he remarked. “It’s the sort of trick you’d expect from a fellow like that. He’s evidently found out that we’re going to play to-morrow, and he’s so dead sore that he’s willing to do anything to prevent it.”

He glanced at the letter again.

“Written to some one in the mine, that’s plain,” he murmured. “Also some one who plays on their nine. Notice where he says, ‘so he cannot pitch against you.’ Well, I don’t know that we can glean any more information by poring over this thing. We’ll have to keep our eyes open to-morrow at the mine and look out for snags. I’ll just keep this blotter; we may have use for it sometime.”

He tucked it carefully away in his pocket, together with the transcription he had made, and resumed his letter. When this was finished he addressed and stamped it, and, after posting it in the lobby, the two chums stepped into the elevator and were carried up to their rooms, where Tucker and Bouncer had retired more than an hour before.