Frank was interested.

“Then you were here on purpose to meet me?”

“Sure, Mike.”

“But why were you going to break my arm?”

“’Cause dat’s wot I was paid fer, me boy.”

Frank caught hold of the ruffian, who had arisen to a sitting posture and was holding onto his head.

“Paid for?” cried the boy, excitedly.  “Do you mean to tell me that you were paid to waylay me and break my arm?”

“I didn’t mean ter tell yer anyt’ing, but a feller wot kin fight like you kin an’ den stay ter see if a chap wot tried ter do him was hurt—­dat kind of a feller oughter be told.”

“Then tell me—­tell me all about it,” urged Merriwell.

“Dere ain’t much ter tell.  Some sneak wanted yer arm broke, an’ he came ter me ter do der job.  He paid me twenty ter lay fer youse an’ fix yer.  I was hard up an’ I took der job, dough I didn’t like it much.  Den he put me onter yer, an’ I follored yer ter der house where youse went dis evenin’.  I watched till yer comes out, and den I skips roun’ ter head yer off yere.  I heads yer an’ asks fer a light.  Youse knows der rest better dan wot I does.”

“Well, this is decidedly interesting!  So I have an enemy who wants my arm broken?”

“Yes, yer right arm.”

“That would fix me so I’d never pitch any more.”

“Dat’s wot’s likely, if ye’re a pitcher.”

“Would you know the person who hired you if you were to see him again?”

“Sure.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“Dat’s wot he did.”

“Ha!  That’s what I want!  See here!  Tell me his name, or by the gods of war I will see that you are arrested and shoved for this night’s work!”

“An’ you will let me off if I tells?”

“Yes.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it!”

“You won’t make a complaint agin’ me?”

“I will not.”

“Well, den, yere’s his card wot he give me.’”

The ruffian fumbled in his pocket and took out a card, which he passed to Frank, who eagerly grasped it.

“Here’s a match, me boy,” said the man.  “I had a pocketful w’en I braced yer for one.”

He passed a match to Frank, who hastily struck it on a stone and then held it so that he could read the name that was engraved on the card in his fingers.

A cry of astonishment broke from Merriwell’s lips, and both card and match fell from his fingers to the ground.

This is the name he had read upon the card: 

“Mr. Burnham Putnam.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

Ditson is trapped.

“It don’t make a dit of bifference, Frank!” spluttered Harry Rattleton.  “I don’t care if you have got his card!  That thug lied like blazes!  Putnam may be selfish—­he may have other faults, but he never hired anybody to break your arm.”

“I cannot think he would do such a thing myself,” said Frank; “but this Plug Kirby, as he is called, seemed honest and in earnest.  He stands ready to identify the fellow at any time.”