CHAPTER XIX

Weaving the Web

Sandy Podder had a most distressing time of it, following his expulsion from the school. He was filled with shame and humiliation at the public disgrace. But far stronger than these emotions was the rage he felt at Garry Grayson because of the latter's vindication. Sandy had thought his scheme perfect. He could not see how it could slip a cog. Yet that it had slipped was only too evident. Now he, Sandy, was held up to public reprobation, while Garry was riding on the crest of the wave.

He cudgeled his brain to find the reasons of his failure. Had his accomplices betrayed him? He dismissed this thought promptly. They could not double-cross him without giving themselves away. They were as deep in the mud as he was in the mire. All their interest lay in keeping the secret.

Could it have been Jake? He had been so befuddled on that night at the roadhouse that he could not remember clearly what had happened there. But he had a dim recollection of boasting to Jake of what he and his pals were going to do to Garry Grayson. He questioned Jake, but that individual was blandly innocent.

"I know nuddings," he said. "Vot you dink, dot I gif such a good customer de rinky-dink?"

The atmosphere in the Podder home did not contribute to Sandy's comfort. His father was bitterly angry, and let no chance pass to remind Sandy that he was a thorn in the flesh. He threatened to make him go to work, a terrible threat to Sandy. His mother, too, was exasperated at him and took no pains to hide it.

So about all the comfort that Sandy got was in consorting with his pals, who were in equally bad case, Lent Stewart and Aleck Anderson. On occasion Bixby joined them in their conferences. He was still a member of the school, but terribly sore at having been barred from athletics and thoroughly in sympathy with the trio, and his hatred of Garry was almost as keen.

At first Aleck Anderson was inclined to be a little offish, for he had an idea that Sandy had dragged him in unnecessarily, which was indeed the fact. But Sandy falsified glibly and was backed up by Stewart.

"You don't think I'd go back on an old pal, do you?" he said wheedlingly to Aleck. "Not on your life! Old Allen had the goods on all three of us, though it keeps me awake nights wondering how he got it."

"It doesn't matter how he got it," growled Aleck, mollified and half-convinced by Sandy's statement and Stewart's corroboration. "The fact is that he got it, and I haven't any use for postmortems."

"Well," said Sandy, "are we going to take it lying down?"

"Might as well lie down as stand up," returned Aleck Anderson disconsolately. "We're licked, anyway."

"Come out of your trance," counseled Sandy. "I've got a bully idea to get even."

"I hope it's better than most of your ideas," put in Lent ungraciously. "The last one was a frost."

"Everybody flivvers once in a while," Sandy defended himself. "I never noticed that you were such a much. But listen now. What would make that swell-headed Garry Grayson feel worse than anything else?"

The others considered for a moment.

"To have Lenox beaten for the championship," replied Lent Stewart.

"Exactly!" agreed Sandy. "Now I've got a plan to make Lenox lose and make Garry Grayson as sore as a boil, and while we're about it we can pick up quite a pile of cash on the side."

"How are you going to do it?" asked Aleck unbelievingly. "Going to break Garry's legs? Bixby already has tried to break his nose, but didn't get away with it."

"No such rough stuff," replied Sandy. "I'm using my brains."

Lent Stewart grunted uncomplimentarily.

"That's what I said," declared Sandy, flashing a dirty look at his pal. "Brains! Look here. Wimbledon is the big game, isn't it? We'll leave out Bass Lake, for Lenox can win that with a team of cripples. But Wimbledon is the team that Lenox has got to beat for the championship. Am I right?"

The others nodded assent.

"Well then," went on Sandy, "the teams are pretty well matched as they stand. It's a toss-up as to which will win. Now suppose that Wimbledon got hold of Lenox's signals. What would happen then?"

His companions started violently as the idea hit them.

"Wimbledon would have a walkover," declared Aleck Anderson.

"She'd score all the touchdowns she wanted," agreed Lent. "There'd be a slaughter."

"Sure she would!" affirmed Sandy, proud of the impression his dastardly suggestion had made. "And if we put up all the money we could rake together on Wimbledon, we'd cop off a pile. We couldn't lose!"

There was silence for a few moments, while the boys ruminated on the possibilities involved in the scheme.

"But suppose we did offer Wimbledon the signals and they refused to take them?" suggested Aleck. "They might do that, you know."

"Do you suppose we're going to call a mass meeting and offer them to Wimbledon in public?" sneered Sandy. "We'll have to sound out some one of the team, the one that would be likeliest to fall for it. Do you know any of the members of the team?"

"I know them by sight, of course," replied Aleck Anderson. "But there's only one of them that I know well enough to talk to. I met him on my summer vacation. That's Bill Sykes, the captain of the team."

"Captain, is he?" said Sandy quickly. "Better and better! How is he fixed--financially I mean?"

"Poor as a church mouse," relied Anderson. "He was working as a waiter at the hotel where I was staying. He does some work during every vacation to help support himself, and even helps the janitor a bit around the high school during the school terms. But what has that got to do with it?"

"It has everything to do with it!" replied Sandy jubilantly. "A few ten dollar bills would make him open his eyes. We could give him a slice of our winnings. And he needn't feel that he's doing anything wrong," the rascal added with specious sophistry, "for he'd only be helping his own school along. I tell you, Aleck, if you only put it to him right, the thing's as good as done!"

They discussed the matter further, perfecting the details. Then they parted, convinced that the scheme would work.

A couple of days later when they met again Aleck Anderson had a long face, and the other conspirators saw at once that something had happened.

"What's the matter?" queried Sandy anxiously.

"You look as though you had been to a funeral," commented Lent.

"I'm afraid our cake is dough," replied Aleck, as he sat down disconsolately on a box in the Stewarts' garage, which was their usual place of meeting.

"Why?" asked Sandy Podder. "Wouldn't Sykes fall for it?"

"I haven't had a chance to see him yet," replied Aleck. "No, it isn't that. It's something that happened a little while ago when I was walking with Ed Bixby."

"What was it?" fumed Sandy. "Get to the point. Has that boob been spilling the beans?"

"Not on purpose; but I'm afraid he's done it just the same," explained Anderson. "You see it was this way. I had just met him and we were walking along, paying no attention to anybody. Then Bixby up and asked me:

"'How about those signals, Aleck? Have you fixed it up with Wimbledon yet?'"

"And just at that minute Mr. Phillips came around the corner and almost bumped into us!"

A cry of consternation burst from the lips of his companions.

"Mr. Phillips!" groaned Lent.

"Did he hear what Bixby said?" asked Sandy, his face a yellowish-green.

"I'm afraid he did," admitted Anderson. "He was going to speak to us, to say 'good afternoon' I suppose, but he stopped short with his mouth wide open. Then he looked at us as though we were snakes or something and marched on without saying a word. The game's up! We're done!"