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.