That seemed to be the turning point. Many of the men knew Merriwell, who was a popular idol among all classes of baseball fans, and the prospect of doing him a good turn, and at the same time thwarting a trust, so appealed to the men that the majority of them turned about and went back to the printing rooms. The foreman was won over without a great deal of trouble. He was a thrifty Scotchman, and the prospect of the twenty dollars which Dick promised him considerably more than overbalanced the inconvenience of going without his supper and curtailing his night’s rest. Consequently, when Dick and the young actor left the place half an hour later, the men were all busy setting up the bills, which would be ready for the presses in very short order. The two stopped at a near-by restaurant and ordered a good supply of sandwiches and coffee sent up to the printers, and then hustled off to find Lawford, the billposter. “By Jove, old fellow!” Demarest said, as they turned into Chapel Street again and walked swiftly past the green. “You certainly did that trick to perfection. I shall be your debtor all my life for having saved the situation.” “We’re not out of the wood yet, by a long shot,” Merriwell returned. “I have a notion that this Lawford will be more of a proposition to bring around. By this time he must have the bills of the Arcadian play, and your friend Bryton has learned about your leasing the Concert Hall. He’s probably paid Lawford well for running his bills in ahead of yours.” “I’m afraid so,” Demarest agreed. “But it’s the limit, when I made the bargain with him first.” “Still, Lawford gets all of his business from the trust, and he can’t afford to have them down on him,” Dick said. “However, I think we can manage it some way.” Reaching the billposter’s place of business, they found that the proprietor had gone, leaving one of his men to shut up the place. “You don’t know where he can be found, then?” Dick questioned. The fellow shook his head. “He didn’t say. Likely he’s home, though.” “Where does he live?” Merriwell asked. “Down to West Haven.” Dick considered a moment. That was a good ways off, and it was extremely questionable whether the results of a trip down there would repay the effort. He had a pretty accurate notion that the billposter had been primed by Ralph Bryton. As he hesitated, he looked swiftly about the office, and his eyes lit up suddenly as they fell upon the great piles of paper stacked in one corner. On the top sheet he caught a glimpse of the words, “Fenwick, of Yale.” That was enough. Bryton had been here, and it would be quite useless to approach Lawford. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVIII WHILE OTHERS SLEPT.