Now Hollingsworth had been wondering greatly over Merriwell’s ability to produce the certificate, for he was absolutely certain he had obliterated from the document every trace of writing. The restoration of the paper to its former condition—for Hollingsworth fancied it had been somehow restored—was something in the order of magic and the doings of the black art. “’Ow could I ruin it?” muttered he huskily. “You sneaked into his room when he was away and obliterated the writing upon it.” Hollingsworth started. Then the writing had been obliterated, for Hodge said so. “It’s a forgery!” cried the trainer, of a sudden. “Merriwell retraced the writing! ’E forged it! Proof of that will keep ’im from getting the trophy, heven if ’e wins!” “Which language from you is the same as a confession that you did sneak into Frank’s room and tamper with the document.” “Prove it! I deny it! But it’s forged! ’E’ll ’ave no right to the trophy if he wins!” “You poor fool!” sneered Bart. “You thought you were clever, but you were easily deceived. The certificate you found was left for you to find. It was last year’s certificate.” “No!” contradicted Hollingsworth. “I took special pains to look at the date. It was this year.” “You unblushingly confess your villainy! Well, let me tell you how you were fooled still further. Expecting you to do just what you did, Merriwell had altered the date on his certificate of last year. His last certificate he placed in the safe at the hotel, where it remained until he called for it to-day.” The outwitted scoundrel saw his last hope vanish. He realized he was baffled and done for. “Take off your coat!” Hodge suddenly cried, stripping off his own and flinging it upon a locker. “What are you going to do?” gasped Hollingsworth. “I’m going to give you the soundest thrashing you ever received,” was Bart’s answer. He did. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXV THROUGH DEAD TIMBER JUNGLE. “There they go along the edge of the Dead Timbers,” said Mr. Ashley, watching the runners through a glass. “I’ve counted them all but three. Three seem missing entirely.” “That’s so,” agreed Paul Proctor, who likewise had a pair of strong field glasses. “They strung out now, but three of them have never issued from the cedars down in the hollow.” “Can you see anything of Merriwell?” anxiously asked Hodge, who had just mounted the steps to the observatory. He bore not a mark of his encounter with Hollingsworth, although his face was somewhat flushed and he seemed to be perspiring freely. He had field glasses of his own, and these he quickly trained on the distant moving specks which were creeping up along the edge of the far-away, dark timberland. “I haven’t been looking for him particularly,” acknowledged Proctor. “I think one of our boys is missing, although I cannot tell which one. I wonder what happened in the cedars.”