Transcriber’s Notes:

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous, right-thinking man.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads

102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron

103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise

104—Dick Merriwell’s Test

105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card

106—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy

107—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph

108—Dick Merriwell’s Grit

109—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance

110—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide

111—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal

112—Dick Merriwell’s Threat

113—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence

114—Dick Merriwell’s Day

115—Frank Merriwell’s Peril

116—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall

117—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit

118—Dick Merriwell Abroad

119—Frank Merriwell in the Rockies

120—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks

121—Frank Merriwell’s Pride

122—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers

123—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance

124—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness

125—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage

126—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard

127—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke

128—Dick Merriwell’s Return

129—Dick Merriwell’s Resource

130—Dick Merriwell’s Five

131—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers

132—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team

133—Frank Merriwell’s Pupils

134—Frank Merriwell’s New Boy

135—Dick Merriwell’s Home Run

136—Dick Merriwell’s Dare

137—Frank Merriwell’s Son

138—Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate

139—Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers

140—Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp

141—Dick Merriwell’s Influence

142—Dick Merriwell, Freshman

143—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power

144—Dick Merriwell’s Joke

145—Frank Merriwell’s Talisman

146—Frank Merriwell’s Horse

147—Dick Merriwell’s Regret

148—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism

149—Dick Merriwell’s Backers

150—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work

151—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust

152—Dick Merriwell’s Debt

153—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery

154—Dick Merriwell Adrift

155—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy

156—Dick Merriwell’s Close Call

157—Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyage

158—Dick Merriwell’s Black Star

159—Frank Merriwell in Wall Street

160—Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes

161—Dick Merriwell’s Stanchness

162—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Case

163—Dick Merriwell’s Stand

164—Dick Merriwell Doubted

165—Frank Merriwell’s Steadying Hand

166—Dick Merriwell’s Example

167—Dick Merriwell in the Wilds

168—Frank Merriwell’s Ranch

169—Dick Merriwell’s Way

170—Frank Merriwell’s Lesson

171—Dick Merriwell’s Reputation

172—Frank Merriwell’s Encouragement

173—Dick Merriwell’s Honors

174—Frank Merriwell’s Wizard

175—Dick Merriwell’s Race

176—Dick Merriwell’s Star Play

177—Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake

178—Dick Merriwell a Winner

179—Dick Merriwell at the County Fair

180—Frank Merriwell’s Grit

181—Dick Merriwell’s Power

182—Frank Merriwell in Peru

183—Frank Merriwell’s Long Chance

184—Frank Merriwell’s Old Form

185—Frank Merriwell’s Treasure Hunt

186—Dick Merriwell Game to the Last

187—Dick Merriwell, Motor King

188—Dick Merriwell’s Tussle

189—Dick Merriwell’s Aero Dash

190—Dick Merriwell’s Intuition

191—Dick Merriwell’s Placer Find

192—Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance

193—Frank Merriwell’s Tact

194—Frank Merriwell’s Puzzle

195—Frank Merriwell’s Mystery

196—Frank Merriwell, the Lionhearted

197—Frank Merriwell’s Tenacity

198—Dick Merriwell’s Perception

199—Dick Merriwell’s Detective Work

200—Dick Merriwell’s Commencement

201—Dick Merriwell’s Decision

202—Dick Merriwell’s Coolness

203—Dick Merriwell’s Reliance

204—Frank Merriwell’s Young Warriors

205—Frank Merriwell’s Lads

206—Dick Merriwell in Panama

207—Dick Merriwell in South America

208—Dick Merriwell’s Counsel

209—Dick Merriwell, Universal Coach

210—Dick Merriwell’s Varsity Nine

211—Dick Merriwell’s Heroic Players

212—Dick Merriwell at the Olympics

213—Frank Merriwell, Jr., Tested

214—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Conquests

215—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Rivals

216—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand

217—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona

218—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Mission

219—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Ice-boat Adventure

220—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Timely Aid

221—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in the Desert

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1929.

222—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Fight for Right

223—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Team Work

To be published in August, 1929.

224—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Athletic Team

225—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Peck of Trouble

226—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Ordeal

To be published in September, 1929.

227—Frank Merriwell, Jr., Birdman

228—Frank Merriwell, Jr., at the Old School

To be published in October, 1929.

229—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Repentant Enemy

230—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Gridiron Honors

To be published in November, 1929.

231—Frank Merriwell, Jr., on the Border

232—Frank Merriwell’s Diamond Foes

To be published in December, 1929.

233—The Merriwell Company

234—Dick Merriwell and June Arlington

Frank Merriwell’s Diamond Foes
OR
STRAIGHT OVER THE PLATE

By
BURT L. STANDISH

Author of the famous Merriwell stories

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Frank Merriwell’s Diamond Foes

Printed in the U. S. A.

FRANK MERRIWELL’S DIAMOND FOES.

CHAPTER I.
COLONEL CARSON, OF CARSONVILLE.

Chip Merriwell, in running togs, had just taken a rail fence at a flying leap. As he dropped into the road beyond the fence, he halted suddenly and gave vent to a startled exclamation.

Almost at the same instant, a second figure in athletic shirt and track pants came hurtling over the fence, pulled up abruptly, and stood hanging on to Merry’s shoulder. This second person was Billy McQuade, with whom Frank Merriwell, junior, was spending a few days of the spring vacation.

The two friends had left home for a cross-country hike together. It was now the middle of the forenoon, they were on their way back, and had still four miles to go before reaching Carsonville.

The crisp spring air of morning gave the two runners new life at every breath. To many a languid youth it spelled laziness and lack of all effort, but Merry and his friend knew from experience that “spring fever” is only a convenient name for doing nothing. Both of them were looking forward to a luxurious relaxation in the long grass by the Carsonville mill pond that afternoon, but they intended to make it all the more enjoyable by an honest physical weariness.

At the point where the two friends struck the highway, it curved in a wide horseshoe bend in order to avoid a tongue of undrained swamp land that struck up from the river. Merriwell had come to the road on one side of the curve, intending to follow the highway back to town.

As he took the hedge bordering the road with a flying hurdle, he had caught sight of a buggy in the white stretch directly ahead of him. That one flashing glimpse had shown him a man in the buggy, and, as he came to earth, he saw the horse give a sudden leap, shying frantically at sight of the flying figure.

Merriwell regretted instantly that he had not looked before he had leaped, but it was now too late. Before Billy McQuade took the leap in turn, the mettlesome steed hitched to the buggy was tearing around the bend of road, while the lone occupant stood up sawing savagely at the reins.

“That’s a lesson I should have learned before this,” Merriwell murmured regretfully. “The horse shied when I came over the hedge, and he’s run away.”

“No doubt about that,” commented Billy, watching with startled eyes. “He looks as if he didn’t intend to stop this side of Fardale.”

The course of the runaway was anything but reassuring. The startled horse was racing madly around the horseshoe bend, with the buggy leaping and rocking behind him, threatening at every instant to go over.

The driver still stood erect, however. He was shouting in an angry tone of voice, and trying vainly to curb the frightened animal. Disaster was imminent at any moment.

“My eye!” Billy ejaculated soberly. “We’ve done it this time, Chip!”

“Then we’d better undo it,” snapped Merriwell, rousing himself. He pointed across the marshy land to the opposite bend of the road.

“Come along, Billy! We can cut straight across over there, and beat the horse to it. He’s forced to go clear around the bend.”

“Practical lesson in geometry,” murmured Billy, with a resigned look at the boggy strip. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Go ahead, old man, I’m with you. Hope the buggy will still be with the horse when it gets there!”

Chip Merriwell leaped across the road, Billy close behind him. They vaulted the rail fence on that side, and set off across the marsh land at the best possible speed.

It did not seem that Billy McQuade’s hope would be fulfilled. The runaway had by this time reached the central point of the curve, and the driver’s efforts seemed to have no effect, for the buggy was careering and bouncing as if ready to smash up at each wild leap.

Merriwell took a glance over his shoulder, and increased his speed. But it was difficult to cover the ground rapidly; pools of water lay here and there, the soft grass and soaked soil sucked at every step, and only by jumping from tussock to tussock could progress be made.

The two runners made it, however. They were nearly across the neck of sunken land when Merriwell heard a startled cry from his friend, and glanced around.

He was just in time to see the driver flung from the buggy!

With a thrill of fear that his carelessness had brought about an irreparable injury, Chip Merriwell dashed forward. The horse was almost upon him as he scrambled up and swung himself across the fence, but the frightened beast had no time to swerve. Taking a few long running steps, Merry flung himself sideways and caught at the bridle.

Almost directly, the horse stopped, trembling and heaving. With a breath of relief, Merriwell began stroking his muzzle, patting his neck, and uttering soothing words. The animal perceived that he was a friend, and stood quiet.

One swift glance showed that the buggy was uninjured, then Merriwell looked around for the driver, stepping back from the horse to get a clear view.

He saw Billy McQuade meeting the driver, who had risen to his feet. It was evident at once that he had suffered from nothing worse than a severe shock, for, as Merriwell turned and approached the two, he heard the driver cursing furiously. With a feeling of distaste, he inspected the man, whose clothes Billy was hastily brushing.

The driver of the rig was a tall, spare, stoop-shouldered man. He was very well dressed, and wore a gray mustache and goatee. There was a hard set to his face, and a pouchiness beneath his black eyes, that denoted self-indulgence, and a life that was anything but what it should be.

“You good-for-nothin’ loafer!” he roared, turning furiously on Billy, as Chip Merriwell came up. “You done this a-purpose! You——”

“It was not Billy’s fault at all,” broke in Merry warmly. “I was the first one over the fence, and your horse shied at me.”

The driver whirled on him, his rage becoming a cold fury as he met Merriwell’s firm, steady gaze.

“What are you doin’ in them duds?” he demanded. “So it was you, hey?”

“Yes,” and, although Merry’s eyes flashed at the tone of the man, he kept his voice cool. “Yes, and I’m very sorry about it. Of course, I’ll be glad to settle for whatever damage was done.”

“Lot o’ good that’ll do!” growled the other, who seemed to be eying him with anything but liking. “What you chasin’ around in them duds for?”

“We were doing a bit of cross-country running,” Merriwell said quietly. Billy McQuade was flashing him queer looks which he interpreted as warnings, but he took no heed of them. “As I said, I’ll expect to make good any damage, and I’m very sorry the accident occurred. My name is Frank Merriwell, junior, and you’ll find me at the McQuades’ residence, if you want me.”

The man flung Billy a hard look, then laughed sneeringly.

“Mebbe I will and mebbe I won’t,” he jeered. “They ain’t goin’ to have a residence very long, I reckon. I s’pose he put you up to scarin’ that hoss, eh?”

“He did not!” cried Merry indignantly. The insinuation made him angry clear through. Billy flung him an imploring glance, but he was a chip of the old block, and showed it in his next words.

“I don’t know who you are, my friend, but you’ve got a disposition that I wouldn’t like to be let loose with. We’ve caused an accident, or, rather, I have, and I’ve apologized and offered to do all in my power to make it right.

“Instead of throwing slurs and curses into the atmosphere, it’d be a whole lot more decent if you’d try to act white. I don’t blame you for being mad. I’d probably be mad myself in the same circumstances. But that’s no reason for your acting in this way.”

The stranger gave him a black look, then moved off.

“Humph!” he grunted sarcastically. “I guess you’re like your dad, if all I’ve heard say is correct. Let’s see what damage was done. I reckon the buggy was smashed up.”

Merriwell and Billy McQuade followed him to where the horse stood. The man went over the buggy, then examined the horse.

“Ain’t nothing busted,” he said, almost regretfully, it seemed. “But you kids are too gay, runnin’ around the country in them duds. It’s goin’ to be stopped.”

“Don’t let our clothes worry you,” retorted Merry. “You know where to find me if you want damages. Come along, Billy.”

He promptly turned his back. Billy threw a dubious look at the man, then followed slowly. Once more the deep voice reached Merriwell.

“You’ll be sorry for this, mind my words! You ain’t a-going to talk to me that way and get off with it, you young scoundrel!”

Chip Merriwell’s cheeks flamed a little, but he kept a firm grip on himself and walked on. After a moment he turned to see the man climb into his buggy and give the horse a savage cut with the whip.

“The brute!” he murmured indignantly. “What that horse needs is a kind word, instead of the lash. More than likely that fellow had him whipped into such a temper that he would have shied at a dead leaf.”

Billy nodded. To his surprise, Merry saw that his friend’s usually clear, frank features were overcast and troubled.

“What’s the matter, old man? You seemed to know that fellow.”

“I do.”

Billy cast a worried look at the rig, now disappearing around the curve of the road.

“Here’s a go!” he muttered gloomily. “I guess we’re all in for it now, Chip.”

“Why? That man isn’t the sheriff, is he?” asked Merriwell, with a laugh.

“No. He’s a whole lot worse. That chap is Colonel Carson, who owns most of Carsonville, and he’ll make the old burg plenty hot for us now, believe me!”

CHAPTER II.
WHY BILLY LEFT SCHOOL.

Chip Merriwell looked curiously at his friend and host.

“Has this Colonel Carson anything to do with your leaving Fardale—or, rather, with your writing that you would not be back?”

“Yes,” Billy said, in a low voice. “Let’s walk along, Chip, and I’ll tell you about it. It might as well come out now as any time, I s’pose.”

It was Merry’s second day in Carsonville. Billy McQuade, or, as he was more generally known, “Billy Mac,” was a plebe at Fardale Academy. During the preceding summer he had shown remarkable ability as backstop on the scrub nine, and it was reported that he was in line to catch for the regular team during the coming season. Billy Mac was also good at first, however, so that Fardale had been in no little doubt.

Shortly before the spring vacation began, Billy had been called home to Carsonville. His father was dead, and his mother had merely written that she needed Billy’s presence to settle up some portions of the estate. Then had come a letter from Billy himself—a heartbroken letter, stating that he would be unable to return to Fardale.

He assigned no definite cause, and the reason remained pretty much a mystery. It was a most disconcerting mystery, also. Owen Clancy, Chip Merriwell’s regular backstop, was somewhere off in the Southwest. It had been pretty generally settled that Billy Mac would don the mask this season, and his sudden withdrawal was a body blow to Fardale hopes.

These had been swiftly raised, however, when on the last day of school before the vacation Clancy had appeared without warning. He had retrieved his family fortunes, and was ready to pitch into work at Fardale once more. This, none the less, did not throw any light upon the mystery of Billy Mac’s dropping out.

Both Merry and his father had been no little worried. Frank Merriwell, senior, had finally suggested that Chip drop around to Carsonville during vacation. Although head over ears in track and field work, Chip had assented gladly. Billy Mac sent him a cordial invitation to come along, and he had promptly arrived.

The McQuade home was a comfortable, old-fashioned residence on a hill near the river, just outside of town. During his first day, Merry had asked no questions, but his eyes had been busy. He noted the worried, uneasy air of hospitable Mrs. McQuade, and the nervousness of his friend. It was not hard to guess that the estate of the senior McQuade had fallen into difficulties, though not a word had been said on the subject.

“Let’s have it, old man,” said Merry gravely. “Nothing helps a fellow so much as being able to spout out his trouble to some one else.”

“I know,” sighed Billy Mac hopelessly. “But this is different. I s’pose you remember about—about dad dying just before Christmas holidays?”

“Yes,” said Chip sympathetically. “And we were all mighty sorry to hear of it, old fellow.”

“Well,” went on the other, “things didn’t look so bad just then. Mother had a thousand dollars of insurance money, while the house and orchard was ours. We’ve got some mighty fine fruit trees there, and they promised to take care of things pretty well.”

“I should think they would! Those apples you dug up yesterday were something fine, Billy Mac.”

“They were the last of the ones we buried last fall, Chip. We shipped off some of them, for with the apples and other things we get high prices from the city. They seem to appreciate getting extra fine fruit.”

“Of course they do. The trouble with most farmers is that they don’t take pains enough to market their crop right, and take care of it on the way. But go ahead.”

Billy sighed again, and glanced heavily at the river.

“This here Colonel Carson,” he broke out, “suddenly produced a mortgage on the house and orchard for two thousand dollars. That was just before vacation, when mother wrote for me to come home.”

“But you knew that he had the mortgage?” queried Chip, frowning.

“We thought dad had paid it. You see, dad—well, dad was kind of careless about money. Just the same, we knew he had paid that mortgage. Mother could find no receipt, however, and Carson vowed that it had never been paid.”

“Somebody ought to teach him something,” said Merry warmly. “Hadn’t you any proof whatever?”

“Not a scratch, Chip. We couldn’t find a single thing. Mother pleaded with him, and he agreed to give us a little time in which to pay it—over again. It hit us pretty hard, you see. We knew that dad had paid it, but that villain Carson only wants to get hold of the place.”

“Looks as though the scoundrel had you,” said Merriwell thoughtfully. “Can you pay it, Billy?”

“Maybe. Mother has that thousand insurance money, and—well, to tell the truth, I’ve arranged to get a job as clerk in the Carsonville general store. If we can hold the colonel off a while, I guess we can fix it.”

“Pretty hard lines, just the same,” commented Merry. “So that’s why you wrote that you wouldn’t be back to Fardale, eh?”

“Yes,” said Billy Mac miserably. “It’s all off, Chip. And now, after what’s happened this morning—well, you can guess that Carson won’t have much mercy.”

Merriwell whistled softly. Now he began to see the possible disaster he had brought upon the McQuade family through scaring Colonel Carson’s horse. Recalling the man’s face, he was forced to admit to himself that he could not see much hope in it. Every line spelled hardness, cold unscrupulousness.

There was good cause for Billy Mac’s worry—yet he had cast no word of blame on Chip, whose lack of caution seemed to have brought wreck upon him. Merry appreciated this fact. It was only another indication of the sterling qualities of his friend.

At the same time, it gave him serious food for thought. If Colonel Carson did come down upon Mrs. McQuade, in his rage, Chip knew that he would be morally responsible for it.

“I’m mighty sorry about this, old man,” he exclaimed soberly, “What kind of a fellow is this Carson? Is he well off?”

“Got slathers of money,” said Billy Mac, with added gloom. “The burg was named after his family, and he owns most of the main street, the bank, and everything else, even the baseball team.”

“Baseball team?” inquired Merriwell sharply. “A professional team?”

“No, the Clippers are made up of amateurs, and stand pretty high in the Amateur League. But it’s like everything else, Chip. The colonel is said to be mighty careless about methods in everything he does, so long as he gets what he wants. The Carsonville Clippers are amateurs, all right, but I notice most of ’em have jobs in Colonel Carson’s bank, or on his farms, or somewhere. And the jobs don’t need much attention.”

“So that’s it, eh?” Merriwell looked thoughtful. “Are they a good bunch?”

There was no doubt that the Clippers could play ball, and play it well enough to win most of their games. Carsonville, of course, was not a large-enough place to support such a team, but, where his one great hobby was concerned, Colonel Carson was willing to spend money like water.

One reason for this was that his own son was the star pitcher of the Clippers. Another was that Colonel Carson had a consuming ambition to make such a showing with his amateur team, that he could buy into one of the larger professional-league teams as a well-known follower of the sport.

To this end, it was necessary that his team should win games. The Clippers did so. But—and this point Merry dragged by sheer force from the reluctant Billy—it was whispered that Colonel Carson did not care much how they won, so long as they did win.

“I don’t believe in repeating calumnies,” went on Billy, “whether you like a man, or don’t. I believe that Colonel Carson is a scoundrel and a liar where my family is concerned, but I don’t like to repeat things that have no foundation.”

“Right you are,” exclaimed Chip. “But in a case of this kind, rumor is apt to hit pretty close to the mark, Billy Mac. Is there a good diamond here?”

“You bet!” cried Billy enthusiastically. “Almost as good as the Fardale grounds, Chip. It’s laid out down below the milldam, by the river, with concrete stands and all that. Colonel Carson certainly does things up brown!”

“That’s what he wants,” agreed Chip. “It’ll help his reputation with the league magnates. But if he builds his reputation on secret chicanery and dirty work, he isn’t going to get very far, and, judging from your own case, it looks as though Colonel Carson had a tricky streak right through him.”

He could not help feeling sorry for Billy Mac, even while admiring his sturdy pluck. To throw up school, athletics, and everything else in order to take up a hopeless undertaking was a stiff proposition. And Billy’s task looked hopeless.

His salary as clerk in the Carsonville general store would certainly be small. It would take him a long time to get together a thousand dollars, to add to the thousand his mother already possessed. Yet it had been the only chance, and Billy Mac had plunged desperately at it without a squeal for help.

Merriwell knew better than to offer financial assistance, though he knew that his father would be glad to help the McQuades. He had seen enough of Billy’s mother to guess at her pride, and, as though Billy had read his secret thought, he turned to Merriwell.

“Don’t say anything to mother about my telling you this,” he said quietly. “It may come out other ways, or she may tell you herself——”

“I understand,” interrupted Chip. “She wouldn’t like to think that her guests had been bothered with family troubles. She’s a mighty fine mother to have, Billy.”

“You bet your boots!” and the other’s eyes lighted up. “She didn’t want me to quit Fardale, of course. But it was the only chance there was, and she had to give in at last.”

“Well, the place isn’t lost yet, so brace up,” advised Merriwell.

By the time they had finished this heart-to-heart talk, they were at the outskirts of the town, and nearing the McQuade home. Billy pointed out a large white house set in from the road as the Carson residence.

They had just passed this point, when, from a bend in the road, came a shrill cry in a boyish voice. An instant later they sighted two figures. One was that of a rather small young fellow, crouching; over him stood a tall, heavy-set figure, striking at the smaller chap, and paying no attention to his cries for mercy.

“My eye!” cried Billy Mac hotly. “Trail along, Chip. I’ll give that brute something else to think of!”

And Billy broke into a run, with a yell of anger.

CHAPTER III.
LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.

“Hel-l-lup!”

At sight of Chip Merriwell and Billy Mac, the smaller of the two figures uttered a shrill appeal. As the bully straightened up, the little fellow writhed away and danced over to the side of the road.

“Hello, Chub!” cried Billy, pausing. “What’s the trouble? Were you playing?”

“Pl-l-laying nothing!” returned Chub shrilly, dancing about in his rage, and pointing at his tormentor. “That big stiff said I rooted too much for the visiting team l-l-l-last Saturday! He caught me and was l-l-lambasting me!”

Chip saw that his friend was fully competent to handle the situation, and stood back. There was something comical about the helpless rage of Chub, and about his manner of stumbling speech, that amused Merriwell.

“You’re a fine sort of sport, I don’t think!” exclaimed Billy Mac, addressing the bully. “Just because a fellow doesn’t root for you, you want to punish him—and a little chap like Chub, too!”

The bully glowered at Billy Mac in a threatening fashion. He was a hulking big fellow, wearing a sporty necktie of flaming red, and a loud-checked suit. His features were heavy and overbearing, with deep-set black eyes, that gleamed maliciously, and from one corner of his mouth drooped a burned-out cigarette.

“What’s it to you, Billy Mac?” he growled menacingly. “You’d better not try to show off around here, just because you been to a military academy fer a few months!”

“There’s no one showing off around here except that necktie of yours,” snapped Billy Mac. “It’s a wonder you couldn’t find a baby to lick, you coward!”

It became evident to Merry that the two knew each other, and that his friend cherished a thorough dislike for the bully.

“Give it to him, Bil-l-ly!” chirruped Chub, who was well out of danger by this time. It seemed impossible for the little chap to pronounce the letter “l” without spilling it out by degrees. “L-l-l-lam him for me!”

The big fellow sneered.

“I suppose you think you can run the place, Billy Mac, now that you’ve been away to school, hey? You think you are a real athlete, with them underwear things on, don’t you?”

Seeing that his friend was speechless with rage, Merriwell interfered.

“It’s quite evident that you’re not fitted to pass on athletes, my friend,” he broke in ironically. “I’ve always found that the fellow who goes around with a coffin nail sticking in his face is the one who sticks in the bleachers. He doesn’t get out and toss the ball very much.”

For some reason, this speech seemed to infuriate the bully. He whirled on Merry with a snarl of anger.

“Smart guy, ain’t you? I suppose you’re that Merriwell kid that Billy’s been blowin’ about so much?”

“It seems that you have some brain left, in spite of cigarettes,” returned Merry dryly. “You’re supposing a lot of things, my friend. It might strike you to suppose that your absence is better than your company.”

“Oh, is that so?” The big fellow clenched his fists, glaring. “Say, fer about two cents I’d take you down a peg, Slim-shanks!”

Billy Mac turned quickly.

“Look here, Chip, you butt out of this!” he demanded. “Chub Newton’s a friend of mine, and this isn’t your quarrel.”

“All right, old man,” said Merriwell, waving his hand. “I’ll gladly turn over our genial friend to you. He looks as if a dose of McQuade compound would improve his health a good deal.”

“Yah!” shrieked Chub Newton, in wild delight. “That’s the way to talk! L-l-listen to that, Bul-l-ly! You’re goin’ to hear things, al-l-l right!”

Bully favored Chub with a black look.

“I’ve give you one lesson about closin’ that jaw of yours, Chub,” he grated. “You’d better lay mighty low, mind my words!”

There was something in the tone and aspect of the fellow that struck a responsive chord in Merriwell’s memory. What the familiarity was, he could not fathom. However, he was sure that there was a familiarity.

“L-l-light into him, Bil-l-ly!” pleaded Chub, his shrill voice appearing to irritate Bully like the buzzing of a mosquito. The latter shook his fist threateningly.

“You heard what I said!” he roared. “Shut that jaw, or I’ll show you what a real lambastin’ is, you tow-headed little rat!”

“I don’t think you will, Bully,” said McQuade. Merriwell had thrown him a warning look, and he had curbed his temper.

“Hey? Why not?” The big fellow turned on Billy, seeming to comprehend for the first time that he was being actually interfered with. “I suppose you’ll stop me, hey?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking it over quite a while,” admitted Billy, with a grin. “Try a fresh cigarette, Bully. It might help you to get ideas faster.”

Chub Newton waved his arms in delight. A few passers-by were pausing to listen to the altercation, and the little fellow turned to them eagerly.

“Watch Bul-l-ly catch it!” he sang out shrilly. “He’s going to get a fal-l-len on harder than the Sprucetown batters fel-l-l on him l-l-l-last Saturday!”

At this the big fellow’s face went positively black with rage. It was clear that he could think of no taunts to fling back at his diminutive foe, so he did the next best thing that occurred to him. He took a swift step toward Chub, his fists clenched.

“No you don’t!”

Billy Mac leaped forward and caught his shoulder, twirling him around.

“Look out!” roared Bully furiously. “I’ll mash that smart-alec mouth o’ yours, you fool! Go home an’ dress yourself!”

“I’d make a better job of it than you’ve done,” retorted Billy, with contempt.

Among the gathering array a quick smile passed, with significant looks at the loud attire of the big fellow. This only served to infuriate him the more. It was clear to Chip that Bully was by no means a favorite, though for some reason no voice was lifted against him, save that of Chub Newton.

“Go for him, ol-l-ld scout!” Chub shrieked. “You can l-l-lick him easy! He’s got a yel-l-ler streak!”

“And you’ve got a yelling streak,” observed Merry, with a laugh.

Glaring from his deep-set eyes, Bully stepped toward McQuade.

“I guess you need a lesson,” he growled. “You’re gettin’ too all-fired smart around this town, for a pauper.”

Billy went white.

“I’d sooner be a pauper than the son of a crook,” he snapped. “And I’d sooner be the son of a crook, than a crook myself, Bully!”

A murmur of applause went up from the crowd. It was cut short by a roar from the big fellow.

“Call me a crook, will you!”

With a quick lunge forward, he aimed a vicious blow at Billy Mac. The backstop did not appreciate the compliment, however.

Catching the blow on his arm, he took a quick step in, and there was a dull smack. Bully went staggering back.

“Yah!” chirruped Chub, in great glee. “I tol-l-ld you! L-l-lam him again!”

The big fellow hesitated, with a surprised expression on his face. Evidently concluding that an accident had happened, he rushed at Billy with a shout.

“Here’s where you get yours, smart alec!”

Billy Mac did not seem at all disturbed over the prospect. He waited the rush quietly, and, as the big fellow drove in another blow, Billy caught the arm. He turned, jerked the other’s wrist over his shoulder, and Bully flew over him into the dust. This brought a shout of applause from the spectators.

It was a simple jujutsu trick. Billy Mac had not learned it very adroitly, but he had learned it well enough to spill his adversary head over heels. Bully was unhurt, and was up instantly, brushing at his gay attire.

“Got some luck, ain’t you!” he sneered furiously.

“Better not try my luck again,” said Billy Mac, with a laugh.

Chub Newton let out a shrill yell.

“L-l-look at the l-l-loud guy now! Yah! Why don’t you cl-l-laim you stubbed your toe, Bul-l-ly Carson?”

Merriwell started. Could it be possible that this fellow was the son of Colonel Carson, of whom Billy Mac had spoken—the baseball player? Yes, he placed the chap now. The features and voice were not unlike those of Colonel Carson.

However, he had no time to conjecture further. Bully went at Billy Mac with a second rush, this time exercising more caution. McQuade had to depend entirely on his quickness, and proved that it was quite dependable.

He slipped aside, raising a cloud of dust as he did so, and tried to trip his opponent. Bully staggered and lost his balance, and, as his arm flew out wide, Billy Mac stepped in and his fist went out.

Again there came a sharp crack as the blow landed. The big fellow, struck fairly on the angle of the jaw below the ear, shivered, and then went reeling across the street. He pulled up at the fence, clinging to it desperately.

“Yah! He’s scared out!” cried Chub.

So, indeed, it seemed. The blow had not been hard enough to knock him out, yet he made no offer to return to the fight. Instead, he raised his fist and shook it menacingly.

“You’ll suffer for this!” he exclaimed. “You wait till I see dad!”

“Yah!” shrilled Chub Newton, dancing wildly. “Go put a muffl-l-ler on your new cl-l-lothes, Bully Carson!”

Bully moved off, evidently sick of the encounter. Since it was plainly over, the spectators drifted away, and Chub Newton thanked his rescuer. Billy Mac introduced him to Frank Merriwell, junior, but seemed to have little delight in his victory.

“Now I am in for it, and no mistake!” he exclaimed, looking after the big fellow.

“Why?”

“Didn’t you notice the resemblance?”

“Well, yes. And I heard Chub call him Bully Carson——”

“Yes, that’s his usual nickname. He is Colonel Carson’s son, Chip. And I guess you can see that I’ve done a pretty bad morning’s work for the McQuade family.”

CHAPTER IV.
COLONEL CARSON’S REVENGE.

“I’m awful-l-ly gl-l-lad to meet you! Bil-l-ly’s tol-l-ld me a l-l-lot about Chip Merriwel-l-l!”

“We seem to have come along just right,” said Merry, shaking hands with Chub. “But we’d better get home, Billy Mac. We seem to attract a good deal of attention in these running togs.”

Billy Mac nodded.

“Sure. You’d better come with me, Chub. We’ll go down to the swimming hole near the house and have a plunge.”

Chub looked disappointed.

“I’m sorry, fel-l-lows, but I can’t. I’m workin’ at the grocery, you know, and I got to get orders this morning. I’l-l-l see you l-l-later, though.”

“You come down to the swimming hole,” offered Billy quickly, “and I’ll help you make up for lost time by covering this street and taking orders.”

“Wil-l-l you, honest!” cried Chub! “Oh, hurray! Watch me go!”

“Well, chase along to the river, then. We’ll get our duds and be right down.”

Chub went capering off at full speed, while Chip and Billy trotted off to the McQuade home.

Here they secured their clothes and towels, saying nothing to Mrs. McQuade of what had happened that morning. Billy was full of fears, but he forced them down in her presence. He did not want to worry his mother unnecessarily.

When they left the house to get to the river, they passed a corner of the orchard. It was bright with blossoms, whose scent came sweetly on the breeze, and Billy jerked his head toward the gnarled trees.

“I’d hate to see those trees piling up an income for Colonel Carson, Merry.”

Chip Merriwell nodded in comprehension.

“It would be hard, old chap. But that’s exactly what they’re doing, right now, since you’ll have to pay the loan a second time. Even that will be better than letting the place fall into his hands.”

“Can’t help it,” and Billy shook his head gloomily. “The mortgage is overdue, and he could foreclose any time he wanted to, you see. He’s going to be sore as blazes over what happened this morning, too.”

“He doesn’t seem to be very fair-minded, for a fact,” agreed Merry. “But it’s a bad plan to worry over what hasn’t happened, Billy. Just forget about financial troubles, and enjoy your swim.”

It would have been hard for the most hardened pessimist not to have enjoyed that plunge into the cool, quiet old river, whose waters were backed up for half a mile by the dam below, forming an ideal swimming pond. The warm air was fresh with the breath of fruit blossoms, for Carsonville was in the fruit belt, and surrounded by orchards.

After twenty minutes of vigorous exercise, the three friends pulled themselves out on the grassy bank and enjoyed a sun bath.

Somewhat to his surprise, Chip Merriwell found that Chub Newton was older than he appeared, and was an expert swimmer. Also, he had no high opinion of the autocrats of his native town.

“I hope the Cl-l-lippers get l-l-lambasted good and proper this year,” he announced pleasantly. “Bul-ly Carson has the worst case o’ swel-l-led bean you ever saw!”

“He looks like it,” said Chip, stretching out lazily. “Can he pitch?”

Chub Newton snorted disgustedly, but Billy spoke up.

“Sure he can pitch, Chip. Chub has a private grouch on, that’s all. Bully isn’t any great favorite off the diamond, but he has the knack of tossing the ball, all right.”

“Yah!” sniffed Chub. “He’s got l-l-luck with him.”

“That’s what he said about Billy,” said Merriwell. “What’s your private grievance against the colonel’s son?”

“Why, I wanted to pl-l-lay on the Cl-l-lippers,” bubbled the little chap. Every time he struck the letter “l” his tongue seemed unwilling to let go of it. “I tried out with ’em and made good. Then a bunch o’ city fel-l-lers come out here and got jobs whil-le they pl-l-layed bal-l-l. They done me, al-l-l right, and three or four other fel-l-lers, too. I was too short to pl-l-lay third, and one o’ them guys was a swel-l-l shortstop. That l-let me out. L-l-lot o’ folks think that Colonel Carson ought to ’a’ favored home pl-l-layers.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Merry thoughtfully. “Of course, sentiment can’t enter into ball games that way, Chub. If the odds were about even, though, he might have done so, I should think. Those city chaps aren’t ringers, are they?”

“No, I guess not,” spoke up Billy. “I don’t think that even Colonel Carson would try that game, Chip. He made quite a bit of bad feeling among the young fellows here, just the same.”

“Time we were gettin’ dressed,” observed Chub uneasily. “I hate to go, but those orders have to be in before noon.”

The three took a last plunge into the cool water, had a quick rub down, and dressed. Then Chub and Billy Mac departed to take a short cut back to town along the river banks, while Merry returned to the house in order to write a letter to his father. On the way, however, he reconsidered.

“I think I’ll let it wait till to-night,” he reflected. “I’ll have a talk with Mrs. McQuade first, if I can work it, and see how the idea strikes her.”

As he passed the corner of the orchard, and came to the garden patch that stretched below the house, he paused suddenly. A sound of vehement talking drifted down to him, and he recognized the deep voice, with a thrill of alarm.

The next moment he made out a horse and buggy standing in front of the house, in the drive. An exclamation of dismay burst from him, for he recognized it at once as the same which he had encountered at the horseshoe bend that morning.

“It isn’t possible!” he murmured. “Colonel Carson wouldn’t try such a trick!”

He approached the house, and, as he did so, his alarm increased. There was no doubt that the autocrat of Carsonville was present, and that he was extremely angry. As Merriwell sprang to the wide veranda, he clearly heard the vibrant tones.

“Yes, that graceless son of yours publicly assaulted my boy in the streets, not half an hour ago, Mrs. McQuade. It’s the last straw, I tell you! First he tries to frighten my horse, then he assaults my son. If it hadn’t been for the spectators, he might have killed the poor fellow. Now, you’ve either got to pay that mortgage or move out.”

Merry chuckled at this version of the incident. Then his face became serious.

“Billy is a good son,” faltered the voice of Mrs. McQuade. “I’m sure there’s some mistake, Colonel Carson. He’s going to start to work Monday at the store, and we hope to pay you that loan before long.”

“You’ll pay up inside of five days,” stormed the angry man. “I’m sick of this fool way of conductin’ business, mind my words! You’ve got till Monday mornin’, then out you go, if you don’t settle.”

Merriwell stepped to the door, his eyes snapping. Colonel Carson stood inside, and Mrs. McQuade was helplessly facing him.

“I think you’ve made a mistake, sir,” said Chip quietly. Carson swung around. “I was present at the encounter in the street, and I assure you that your son was in no danger. Billy hit him twice, and he lost his nerve and started for home.”

Colonel Carson’s face purpled with fury.

“So you admit it, hey?” he roared. “You can be mighty thankful, young man, if I don’t have both o’ you arrested for this business! Nice goings on, this is!”

“I guess you won’t do any arresting in a hurry,” said Chip calmly. “It wouldn’t make a very nice story to get out about your son. The ‘poor fellow,’ as you call him, was brutally beating little Chub Newton, and Billy stepped in to prevent it, that’s all. If there’s any arresting to be done, it might be the other way around, for your son assaulted Billy first.”

Mrs. McQuade gave Merriwell a grateful glance. Colonel Carson sputtered.

“That’s a lie!” he broke out.

Chip’s eyes flashed.

“I think we’ve had enough of your brand of politeness,” he said quickly. “You have given Mrs. McQuade until next Monday to pay you, and that settles your business in this house, Colonel Carson.”

“What’s that to you?” shouted the enraged autocrat. “You ain’t got any right here neither——”

“I think you had better go, Colonel Carson,” and Mrs. McQuade gestured toward the door, with quiet dignity. “I have no legal proof of the mortgage having been paid, although the fact is morally certain. If we are not able to pay you before Monday, we cannot resist eviction, of course.”

“Fine chance you have of raising two thousand dollars by then!” sneered Colonel Carson, grasping his hat. “I’ll be around at eight o’clock Monday morning, so you’d better be packed up.”

And with that he left, still muttering threats.

“I’m sorry about this, Mrs. McQuade,” said Merriwell. “But don’t give up hope yet. Billy told me about the matter after we met Colonel Carson this morning.”

“It’s hard to keep up heart,” and the good woman looked out the door, her face strained and hopeless. “You see, we are positive that Mr. McQuade paid off that loan long ago, but we have no proof that would stand in law. It seems hard that such a man as Colonel Carson should drive us out!”

“He’s not done it yet,” responded Chip cheerfully. “I never knew chicanery to get a man anything lasting, Mrs. McQuade. It may seem to win out, but there are other things more important than money, you know.”

“You’re a good comfort, Mr. Merriwell,” and she gave him a smile, as she dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “Well, I’ll have to see about those cookies——”

And she went to the kitchen, leaving Chip in a thoughtful mood. When Billy returned half an hour later, he was wrathful at hearing of the colonel’s ultimatum, but could see no hope ahead. During luncheon, however, Merry made a proposition.

“If I could get a thousand dollars to add to your thousand, Mrs. McQuade, would you let me lend it to you? You could pay me interest, of course, and give me a mortgage to that amount, if you liked, as security.”

This proposal was argued pro and con., but Chip had made it in such a way that it was a straight business proposition, and in the end Mrs. McQuade assented, providing that Merriwell could get the money.

So that night Chip wrote his father at Bloomfield. He related the situation at Carsonville, told what had happened that day, and stated that since he felt responsible in some measure, he would like to borrow a thousand dollars from his father in order to help out the McQuades. It never occurred to him that his father might refuse the loan.

CHAPTER V.
THE VILLAGE GREEN.

“When are them guys coming?”

“They’ll be along pretty quick, Bully. I hear there ain’t any game Saturday?”

“No. There’s been a flood down the valley, and them Greenville scrubs wired that they wouldn’t be up. They’re all helpin’ flood sufferers. Think o’ lettin’ a little thing like that interfere with our schedule!”

Bully Carson grunted sarcastically. It was evident that he had little use for flood sufferers.

“Come on, Bully, let’s get a little practice right here,” suggested one of the half dozen fellows standing around in baseball uniforms. “Bunting practice.”

“Might’s well, while we’re waiting, I suppose,” assented Carson.

They were waiting by the schoolhouse, lolling about the village green, and waiting for the remainder of the Clippers to show up for the morning work-out. Off at one side stood a group of young fellows who were watching proceedings with scowling faces.

Bully Carson and “Squint” Fletcher, who covered home plate for the Clippers, stepped out and began to plunk a ball back and forth. Hendrix, the shortstop, seized a bat and began to bunt.

At this juncture; Frank Merriwell, junior, accompanied by Billy Mac, strolled up. They had been having a work-out of their own down by the river, and Billy carried his catcher’s mitt. They paused not far from the group of discontented-looking chaps, who nodded to Billy. Merriwell was introduced, and all watched the Clippers at work.

It was the morning after Colonel Carson’s ultimatum had been delivered. From the comments which were passed, Chip decided that the young fellows of Carsonville cherished a distinct feeling of dislike for the colonel’s son, who was captain of the Clippers.

“Bully gives me a pain,” declared one of the group, Bud Bradley. He proceeded to narrate Carson’s comment on the action of the Greenville club.

“That doesn’t sound extra well,” commented Merry. “It’d be more to the point if the Clippers would pile down to Greenville and help out the flood sufferers.”

“No chance of that,” exclaimed Dan McCarthy, a lanky village youth. “Nobody ever heard o’ Bully Carson helpin’ any one, nor his dad neither.”

“Howdy, fel-l-lers,” piped Chub Newton, as he joined the group. “Any one want to order groceries this morning? I hear there’s no game Saturday.”

“Open date,” returned Billy. “Too late now to rearrange things, too.”

“Look at that second baseman drop them!” growled Jim Spaulding.

“And talkin’ about bushers, watch that feller who tries to play first,” added McCarthy.

“Yah!” jeered Chub Newton, prodding Bud Bradley in the ribs and dancing away. “You fel-l-lers are jeal-l-lous, that’s what! You’re sore because you aren’t inside of those uniforms.”

“And who wouldn’t be sore?” said Bradley hotly. “When that fellow Carson blacklists his own townfolks, and drags in city players, it’s enough to make any one hot!”

“’Tisn’t as if we wasn’t good ball players, either,” added McCarthy. “Bully knows he couldn’t show off around us, that’s all. He wants to be captain, and he’d stand a fine chance of us electin’ him!”

Merriwell moved off a few steps, watching the Clippers. The foregoing remarks had indicated clearly the position of things in the town. The group of disgruntled natives comprised several of those who, like Billy Mac, had been ousted from the Clippers by the imported amateurs.

It was not hard to understand the reason for this, and Merry found himself in sympathy with the feeling. Knowing what he did of Bully Carson, he thought it highly probable that the captain of the Clippers doubted his ability to hold that position among the young fellows who had grown up with him.

It was much easier to impress a crowd of chaps who worked for his father. They would be very likely to toady to him, and allow him to lead them. This was plainly the sort of thing that Carson loved.

“Just the same,” remarked Chip to Billy, who stood beside him, “I don’t think your friends give him full credit, old man. He looks like a good pitcher, and those other chaps know their business.”

“You’d show him up in two jerks, Chip,” declared Billy stoutly. Merry smiled, but did not reply.

Carson had noted the arrival of the two friends, for more than once he looked blackly at the group, and passed remarks to his companions that drew their eyes also. They grinned at his words as if they formed great strokes of humor.

Merry saw at once, however, that Carson knew his business. So did the rest of the Clippers. They had spread out over the green, and handled the bunts in fine shape, moving in perfect harmony and whipping over the ball with precision.

Their captain and star pitcher might have a bad case of “swelled head,” but he showed that when it came to pitching, he was right there. As a group of girls passed on the other side of the street, he proceeded to cut loose.

And Merry admitted to himself that Bully Carson was a pitcher. He had speed and good control, while his curves broke sharply.

“Aw, cut out the comedy, cap,” growled his catcher, Squint Fletcher. “This ain’t no stage performance!”

Carson scowled, but kept silent. Perhaps he had already discovered that his husky backstop had little desire to truckle to him.

“Say, I got an idea!” chirruped Chub Newton shrilly. His voice lifted across to the green, and it caused Bully Carson to throw a vicious glance in the direction of the group.

“Be careful of it,” grinned McCarthy. “You want to set on it an’ hold it gently by the ears, Chub. Don’t push it too hard.”

“You l-l-listen to me,” went on the little fellow eagerly. “We could get a better team right here in town than those Cl-l-lippers! I’d l-l-like to form another one, a cl-l-lub of our own, and l-l-lambaste the spots out o’ them!”

At this astounding proposal, the members of the group stared at each other. Carson, who must have heard the words, looked blacker than ever, but continued tossing the ball.

“We couldn’t do it,” and Bud Bradley shook his head. “We’ve no money for grounds or uniforms or things, and most of us have to keep close to work.”

“I’d like to show that second baseman up, just the same,” said Spaulding. “But I guess there’s no chance, Chub.”

“Why not?” spoke up Billy Mac hastily. “We’ve got uniforms of one kind and another already, haven’t we? We don’t need grounds—we can practice up and beat the Carsonville Clippers on their own grounds, fellows!”

“Yah! That’s the stuff!” shrieked Chub, dancing excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be a scream, though! A bunch of us l-l-lambastin’ the town cl-l-lub! Wow!”

It was plain that Chub’s proposition appealed strongly to most of those present, but the difficulties seemed insurmountable.

“It’d take down Colonel Carson a heap,” muttered McCarthy. “I’d do a good deal to pay him back fer the way he gobbled our pasture lots, when his cussed mortgage come due!”

“Look here,” exclaimed Billy Mac, with eagerness. “It isn’t near so bad as it looks, honest! We got pretty near a full infield right here in this crowd. We could get to work and practice off days till the ball season gets going, then light into that bunch right.”

“Sounds good,” admitted Spaulding. “But it won’t work, Billy. Those fellows are sluggers from Sluggville. We’d have to have a crackajack pitcher to hold ’em down. And you know as well as I do that we’d have a hard job hitting Carson.”

“That’s all right,” retorted Billy Mac. “Mebbe we could get Chip Merriwell, here, to come down from Fardale and pitch!”

At this proposal, every eye went to Merry. McQuade’s eager seconding sent Chub into spasms of delight.

“Yah!” he piped shrilly. “Put Chip in the box, and watch him l-l-lam Carson! See him cl-l-lip the Cl-l-lippers! Yah!”

“What do you think of the plan, Merriwell?” inquired Bud Bradley doubtfully. “Would you be willing to come over and pitch?”

Merry nodded. Before he could speak, however, his eye was caught by a sudden movement on the part of Carson’s team.

Three or four members had just arrived. Bully Carson, who must have heard the eager cries of Chub Newton, had immediately ceased practice. He had gathered the Clippers around him, and appeared to be talking vigorously, though his words were lost.

“You’d better put on the soft pedal, Chub,” advised Merry. “Seems to me that Bully has it in for you and Billy Mac.”

“Let him come!” sniffed Billy. “But what do you think about the idea, Chip?”

The group closed in about Merriwell, every member anxious for his opinion, as Billy had more than once described the diamond wizard’s prowess to his home friends.

Merry hesitated, as he glanced around the faces. It did not appear likely that the Clippers could be easily trounced, and, besides this, he did not like to appear to be stirring up ill feeling.

He knew that there was a strong current of dislike against the Carson methods. At the same time, Colonel Carson controlled the town, and could possibly make it hot for those who opposed his son. Merry hesitated to give advice, under the circumstances, but finally nodded.

“Yes, I think the idea’s a good one, if you don’t carry your antagonism to extremes. As to coming over and pitching for you, I can’t promise definitely. I’d be glad to do it, of course, if things shape themselves right.”

“Hurray!” went up a general shout of delight, and Billy Mac patted his friend on the back, until Merry almost choked.

“Hurray for you, Chip! I knew you wouldn’t go back on us!” he cried.

“By gum, we’ll have the first practice this afternoon!” exclaimed McCarthy, in high excitement. “Chub can get off o’ the store, I reckon, and we’ll go down to the river an’ start things! Jim, can we get enough fellers together?”

“I guess so,” assented Spaulding, with a nod. “Merriwell might be able to give us some good advice, and he could get a line on our work.”

He was interrupted by a sudden cry from Chub Newton.

“Hey! L-l-look out, fel-l-lers! Here they come!”

Merry and the others turned quickly. Bearing down upon them was Bully Carson, a bat in his hand, and crowding around him were the members of the Clippers. One and all looked ugly in the extreme.

CHAPTER VI.
A CHALLENGE.

As the Clippers approached, there was no sign of giving way in the ground around Merriwell. The Carsonville boys were not equal in numbers, but they were plainly anxious enough for battle. Carson paused a few yards distant.

“Well, what do you want?” snapped Merry.

“We’re goin’ to run you out o’ town, see?” retorted Squint Fletcher, his cross eyes glaring savagely. “You’re here tryin’ to stir up trouble against us, eh? Well, you don’t get no chance.”

“I think you’re misinformed,” returned Chip quietly. “No one’s stirring up a fuss except you.”

“Oh, is that so?” Bully Carson pushed forward aggressively, clutching his bat. “I suppose you didn’t try to kill dad yesterday, hey? I suppose you didn’t set Billy Mac on me, hey?”

“You’re doing a lot of supposing,” said Merry dryly. “Your thinking apparatus needs oiling, Bully. Try a cigarette. It may straighten out things.”

Merriwell’s calm demeanor, and the resolute air of the group around him, rather cooled the ardor of the Clippers. It only angered Carson and Fletcher the more, however.

“So you’re the famous Chip Merriwell, hey?” spluttered Squint, shoving his undershot chin forward. “I guess we’ve heard enough slush out o’ you and the rest o’ this gang. Let’s beat ’em up proper, fellers!”

“Yah!” chirruped Chub, dancing on the outskirts of the crowd. “Try it! Ask Bul-l-ly where he got that bump on his chin. Ask him!”

This sally scored, for Billy Mac’s fist had left unmistakable marks on the heavy countenance of the captain of the Clippers.

“You’ll get yours, you little runt!” foamed the angry Carson, brandishing his bat at Chub. “We’ll make you pretty sick of lettin’ off your jaw around here!”

“Well, you’re a mighty slow bunch to git started,” observed the lanky, bronzed McCarthy, who worked in the orchards, and looked it. He spat on his hands. “I allus did want to paste them lamps of yours, Squint.”

“You’ll get your wish, all right,” added Bud Bradley, shoving forward belligerently. “Let’s take Carson down and throw him in the river, fellows!”

This proposal was greeted with high delight on the part of the town group. The Clippers began to move forward, and Merriwell saw that a conflict was imminent.

“You’d better go slow,” he advised the Carson crowd. “We’re not forcing any battle, remember. Keep back there, Bradley. If they start it, let them take the consequences.”

“We’ve got ’em scared already,” jeered Squint Fletcher. “Leave that Merriwell kid to me. I’ll handle him!”

“Yes, you won’t!” piped up Chub Newton. “Yah! L-l-lambaste ’em, Bil-l-ly!”

Chub’s shrill cry was the last straw. Carson emitted a furious roar and raised his bat, while his team began crowding forward. The group around Merry closed in compactly, and it looked as if there would surely be a fight.

At that instant, however, a brawny man shoved in between the two parties. Squint Fletcher was just aiming a blow, and the man seized him by the shoulders and flung him back, sending him into Carson with a thump.

“That’s enough o’ this!” roared the town constable, for the man was no other. “I been keepin’ my eye on you, Fletcher. Clear out o’ here, the bunch of you.”

“What right have you got to interfere?” cried Carson angrily. “I’ll have my father——”

“You shut up, or I’ll pinch you!” exclaimed the constable hotly. “I don’t care for either you or your dad. I’m constable o’ this town. Git out, now, and do it lively, or I’ll run the lot o’ you in! Jump!”

He pulled forth his club. Seeing that he meant business, Carson flung a sullen look around, nodded to his gang, and they melted away. The constable turned to Merry.

“Much obliged,” said Chip, smiling. “We were afraid they meant trouble.”

“So they did,” growled the constable. “You’d better let ’em simmer down.”

“We will,” said Billy. The group was just breaking up when Merriwell halted them.

“One minute, everybody. What do you say to getting a game with the Clippers this Saturday? I believe it’s an open date; I can pitch, and if you’re willing to work between now and then, we can give them a run for their money!”

“Whoop!” A yell of delight burst from every throat.

“Bully for you!” cried Spaulding, grabbing Merry’s hand and pumping it.

“No, us fer Bully!” said McCarthy. “You bet we will!”

“Can you get a team together?” asked Chip. “If you can, meet at Billy’s house to-night and talk things over.”

“We can get everything but a first baseman,” said Bud Bradley, thinking quickly.

“Well, maybe I can take care of that,” said Merry. He remembered that Owen Clancy was at Fardale, and his chum could be induced to come to Carsonville. “So long, then. Billy and I will get the game, and we’ll expect you right after supper. Bring all the fellows you can get, and we’ll start practice work in the morning.”

This sudden proposal had been simmering in Merriwell’s brain for some moments. He knew that it would be hard for him to get away from Fardale later in the season, and if these local players had any talent, there might be a chance of defeating the Clippers at once.

The group broke up. Merry and Billy set off together, while the others spread the news through the town in great excitement.

“We’ve undertaken a big contract, Billy. Let’s go up and see the colonel now.”

“I’m willing,” said Billy Mac. “But he’ll want to bet on the game, Chip.”

“He’ll—what?”

McQuade explained hastily. It seemed that Colonel Carson was used to plunging heavily on his own team, in common with a number of other men who followed the Amateur League. Some large sums of money changed hands as a result of the games.

“If he only knew it,” exclaimed Merry, frowning, “that will hurt his chance of ever buying into a big-league team. That sort of a man is not wanted in baseball to-day. However, we’ll see if he’s willing to play us.”

The two friends wended their way to the large white house occupied by Colonel Carson. They were met at the door by that gentleman, in person, who did not ask them inside, but stiffly inquired their business.

Merriwell stated it, saying that he understood the Clippers had an open date on Saturday, and that he would like to meet them with a pick-up Carsonville team. The colonel tugged at his goatee suspiciously.

“What’s your object?” he snapped. “Want to play for the gate receipts?”

“Not at all,” said Chip. “We just want to play the Clippers off their feet, and we intend to do it.”

“Humph!” grunted the other. “Got a mighty good opinion of yourself, hey?” His face cleared suddenly. “Mebbe you’d like to make a little side bet, you or Billy?”

“No, thanks,” returned Merriwell. “I don’t gamble, and I don’t think Billy does.”

“Well, look a-here,” went on Colonel Carson wheedlingly, addressing Billy. “I know you’ve got some insurance money, McQuade. You put it up on this game, and I’ll give you odds, two to one. How’s that? Ain’t that fair?”

“Fair enough,” grinned Billy Mac. “Only, I’m not in your class as a gambler, colonel. No, we’re in this just to show up that club of yours, and do it proper. That’ll satisfy us.”

“But if you won,” persisted the other, taking no heed of the taunt, “you’d have enough to pay off that mortgage, and some over!”

Billy wavered, but only for an instant.

“Nothing doing,” he declared firmly. “If you want to play us, we’ll make your old team hump itself. If you’re scared of getting beaten, all right. Just say so.”

“What! The Clippers scared o’you!” Colonel Carson laughed scornfully as he eyed the two. “Well, I guess not! It’s a go. The reg’lar umpires will be here, anyway, so I guess we can use ’em?”

“Certainly,” said Merriwell. “We may have the ball park for practice?”

“Not much,” retorted Colonel Carson. “Get your own practice ground. Mebbe you had a notion I’d lend you uniforms!”

“No, we’d hate to play in Clipper uniforms,” returned Merry gravely.

Colonel Carson was not quite sure how to take that remark, so he let it pass.

“Too bad you’re scared to bet on yourself,” he said cuttingly. “Got any battery picked out yet?”

“We’ll be it,” said Billy, with a grin. “Merriwell pitches for Fardale, you know.”

“Humph! And you’ll do the ketchin’, hey? Well, I don’t wonder that you fellers don’t want to bet, then!”

Merry flushed a trifle.

“You’re wrong, Colonel Carson. I don’t believe in betting on principle. And especially where baseball is concerned. It’s an unhealthy element to drag into the game, and the big baseball men have no use for a gambler, any more than good business men have.”

This speech caused Colonel Carson to flush. His hard-lined, unhealthy face took on a most unpleasant aspect.

“Oh, you think you’re smart!” he observed darkly. “Young man, I’ve not forgotten what took place yesterday morning. You’re goin’ to regret it. I intend to make you so sick of this town that you’ll never come back to it.”

“Thanks,” said Merry easily. “The town looks pretty good to me, though—all except the name. Well, you haven’t said whether we’d get that game or not.”

“Of course you’ll get it,” said Colonel Carson. “We’ll run up such a score on you that you’ll quit before the third inning.”

“Thanks again,” and Merry chuckled. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about that. Anyhow, we’ll make you hump.”

“Humph!” grunted the colonel, as if to echo the last word. “Two-thirty this Saturday. I’ll provide the umpires, and they’ll be our regular league men.”

“That suits me,” said Merry, and the two friends took their departure.

Billy stated that there need be no worry about the umpiring, as that end of the league was in good hands, and the umpires were excellent men.

“That’ll help a whole lot, then,” said Merry. “To-day is Wednesday, Billy. We will get started to-morrow morning. Two days of practice looks pretty slim, but I guess we can pull through. Want to get out with your mitt for signal work this afternoon?”

“You bet!” cried Billy excitedly. “And I’ll catch you in a real game—my eye!”

“Let’s hope we don’t make exhibitions of ourselves,” said Merry.

CHAPTER VII.
CHIP GETS A LETTER.

That evening, the McQuade homestead thrummed with eager voices. Six of the best local players, carefully picked by McCarthy, had gathered. A good many more had offered their services, but most of these had more enthusiasm than baseball knowledge.

“We sure need a first baseman,” exclaimed Spaulding. Merry smiled.

“I wired my chum, Owen Clancy, this afternoon,” he explained. “He’s at Fardale now, and has been out West. He’s just getting over a sprained ankle, but I think he can cover first for us all right. Now, let’s get down to business and map things out.”

Billy Mac, of course, would be backstop. He had been practicing all afternoon with Merry, and Chip had found that he could ask no better partner. The lanky Dan McCarthy would cover third, and looked as if he would do it efficiently.

Jim Spaulding made a bid for the central sack. He was one of the town players who had been ousted by Bully Carson, and was correspondingly bitter against the Clippers. Chub Newton would take care of short.

“We won’t be a cl-l-lassy-l-l-lookin’ bunch,” announced the little fellow, as he inspected the ancient and tattered uniform he had brought along, “but we’l-l-l be right there when it comes to bal-l-l pl-l-laying!”

“You bet!” chuckled McCarthy, eying his own faded green shirt and baseball pants. “If I don’t bang out a two-bagger, I’ll quit tryin’ to play ball, by gum!”

The outfield would be taken care of by Moore, also an ex-Clipper; Henderson, who had been a high-school star two years before, and a tremendously built young chap named Nippen. This Nippen was almost a giant in build, possessed of terrific strength, and apparently had the general aspect and intelligence of a cow.

He was the one member of the gathering who did not impress Merriwell as being especially adapted for baseball. Billy, however, reassured his friend in a whispered aside that Nippen would produce the goods.

“He doesn’t look up to much, Chip, and he lumbers around like an overgrown puppy. But when he lands on the ball, he kills it, and the way he covers center field is something wonderful to watch. You wait!”

So Merry smiled and waited. Every one present displayed inspiring eagerness to work. There was one thing, however, which troubled Merriwell. This was the ill feeling which they displayed.

“You’ve got to watch that, fellows,” he said. “I noticed to-day that you weren’t a bit anxious to avoid trouble. Now, if we start in to win that game, it’s going to make the other crowd sore. They’ll try to get us into a fight and break up things. I want you to promise me that whatever they say or do, you’ll keep your heads and let the scrapping wait till later. We can’t afford to get rattled, you know.”

All save McCarthy recognized this fact and readily extended their promise. The lanky third baseman held back, however.

“If that feller Squint Fletcher gets gay, I’m goin’ to paste him,” he declared stubbornly. “I won’t take any talk or any dirty work from him.”

“All right,” said Merry quietly. “We’ll have to find another man to cover third, I’m afraid. We can’t take any chances that way, fellows.”

McCarthy was taken all aback by this. When he found that Merriwell was in earnest, he scratched his head and reconsidered.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll promise not to start anything like a scrap, no matter what Squint does. But I’m goin’ to file my spikes, jest the same. I reckon we’d better make Merriwell captain, fellers.”

There was an instant shout of agreement. Chip held up his hand.

“Hold on, everybody! I think that Billy Mac ought to be your captain. I’m an outsider, and I’m only butting in here, anyhow——”

“Not on your life!” yelled Billy.

“Yeh! You’re it, Merriwell!” chirped Chub Newton. “I’l-l-l bank on you every time! L-l-let’s make it unanimous, fel-l-lows!”

Merry’s protests were voted down amid wild enthusiasm, and he was elected captain of the pick-ups. Spaulding suggested that they call themselves the Carsonville Clippings.

“That’s it!” cried Chub. “The Cl-l-lippers and the Cl-l-lippings—wow! Won’t Bul-l-ly Carson be mad, though!”

The name was adopted with a yell of delight. The meeting was just breaking up when there was a ring at the doorbell, and Billy returned with a telegram for Chip.

“It’s from Clancy,” cried Merry, tearing open the envelope. “Hello! Listen to this, fellows!”

And, holding up the message, he read as follows:

Coming on the jump. Ankle fine. Bringing your uniform and some balls. Arrive to-morrow noon via Hornet.

Owen Clancy.

“What’s the Hornet?” inquired Billy, in wonder. “There’s no noon train in!”

“That’s Clancy’s car,” laughed Merry. “It’s an old auto that he took off the scrap heap and made into a racer, though it doesn’t look up to much. He brought it with him from the West.”

“I’d like to put him up,” volunteered Spaulding. “We’ve got lots of room at our place, and he’d be welcome to stay a month.”

Billy protested, for he wanted Clancy as a guest himself, but Merriwell knew that two guests would sorely tax good Mrs. McQuade’s resources, so he accepted Spaulding’s offer gratefully. The meeting broke up with the first practice set for the following morning, Chub Newton stating that he would get off work easily enough, as his employer had no love for the Carsons.

Merriwell rather expected that he would get a letter from his father in the morning’s mail, but none came. Though he said nothing of it, this worried him slightly. He had explained to Billy that he had written his father, asking for the thousand dollars, and he began to wonder if his letter had miscarried.

He soon forgot his worry, when the Clippings assembled on an old diamond used by the high school. It was in a meadow beside the river. Three or four old balls were produced, and Merry at once set to work to get an idea of what his team could do.

The results were both encouraging and discouraging. The diamond was rough and uncared for, so that the infield had a tough time judging balls, but the base throws were excellent, and they showed good form.

Merry handed up slow ones, and the batting practice proved that in this quarter his team was lamentably weak. Chub Newton would bite at anything. McCarthy faced the plate wickedly, but his eye was poor on slow ones, and it was said that Bully Carson did his best work with a fadeaway ball.

Spaulding proved to be a fair batsman, while Nippen landed on Merry’s first ball and knocked it into the middle of the river. Henderson and Moore did poorly, and, although the three outfielders showed up better on gathering in high ones, Merry was not greatly encouraged when he and Billy went home for lunch.

“We’ve got a tough nut to crack here, old man,” he remarked soberly. “Can the Clippers hit pretty well?”

“That’s their strong suit,” gloomily returned Billy Mac. “They get a pitcher going, and it’s all off with him. They’re pretty ragged when it comes to headwork, but they give Carson mighty good support. Yes, they can certainly hit. Squint Fletcher leads the league.”

“Slugging doesn’t always mean hitting,” said Merry cheerfully. “Brace up, old man! We’ve a day and a half for practice, and we’re going to improve a whole lot.”

“We’ll need to,” muttered Billy. He halted suddenly, staring up at the house just ahead of them. “Hello! There’s a machine standing out in front!”

“Clancy must have come ahead of time!” cried Merry.

The two burst into a run. Reaching the veranda, they found a red-haired young fellow seated in a rocker. He was talking with Mrs. McQuade. At sight of Merriwell, he leaped up and vaulted the railing.

“Hello, Chip!” he cried, wringing Merry’s hand. “Wow! I’m glad to see you!”

“Same here,” returned Chip. “I see you’ve already met Mrs. McQuade, eh?”

“We’re old friends by this time,” said Clancy. “Hello, Billy! I haven’t seen you since last fall. How’s everything?”

“Pretty good,” stated Billy, forgetting his troubles for the moment. “When do we get some eats, mother?”

“Lunch is all ready,” said Mrs. McQuade, who had taken a fancy to the red-haired chap already. “Do you want to bring your stuff inside, Mr. Clancy?”

Merriwell hastily explained that Clan was going to stop with Jim Spaulding, and they turned to examine the load heaped in the vacant seat of the machine.

This was composed of two Fardale uniforms, together with a catcher’s mitt, protector, and mask, and a half dozen balls. On these Billy pounced with delight.

“Wait till this afternoon, Chip! We couldn’t do much with those old balls this morning, but we’ll show you something this afternoon! Say, this looks pretty good to me.”

“Something to eat would look pretty good to me,” said Clancy. “I’ve been hitting the high places ever since early this morning. Say, it certainly did feel good to go out and have your mother pump water over me, Billy. Reminded me of days on the farm.”

The three settled down about the table, and Merry at once launched into a description of events at Carsonville. Billy and his mother never tired of watching the bronzed young fellow, who had been regaling Mrs. McQuade with tales of his adventures in Arizona, and Clancy polished off the good things before him with astonishing rapidity.

“It listens good to me,” he commented, with a sigh, when, at length, he could stow no more away. “I hear at Fardale that Billy has developed into quite a backstop, eh?”

“Sure,” said Merry. “He’s a wonder, and no mistake, Clan.”

“Oh, my eye!” sniffed Billy. “Just because I happen to hold on to your double shoots, you needn’t raise my modesty like that!”

“It isn’t every one who can hang on to them,” said Clancy. “Oh, by the way, Chip, I came mighty near forgetting! Your father was at Fardale yesterday on a flying visit.”

And he began to dig excitedly at his pocket, finally extricating an envelope which he handed to Merry.

“Your father asked me to give this to you. He said it would get to you quicker than if he mailed it.”

Merriwell nodded. With a word of apology to Mrs. McQuade, he tore open the envelope, half expecting to see an inclosure. None fell out. He ran his eye quickly over the letter, and his cheeks paled a trifle, then he refolded it, and put it in his pocket.

Five minutes later he stood on the veranda with Billy. Clancy was down in the drive explaining the hidden beauty of his car to Mrs. McQuade.

“What’s the trouble, Chip? Wouldn’t he let you have the coin?” asked Billy.

“I’m sorry, old man,” and Merriwell bit his lip. “He didn’t think it wise.”

CHAPTER VIII.
GETTING DOWN TO WORK.

Merriwell drew out the letter and sank into a chair. While Billy listened, he read over that portion of the letter referring to the request for a loan. Chip read as follows:

“I sympathize very deeply with both Billy and his mother, Frank, and I would be glad to have you read this to Billy, and assure him of my best regards and wishes. As to lending you the money, however, I do not think that this would be wise, for several reasons.

“The first and most important is that it seems to me to be a poor way in which to checkmate a scoundrel like this Colonel Carson. I have made inquiries about him, and find that he had a reputation as a plunger on ball games, and is wrapped up in the success of his own team.

“I think you have done well in raising a team to defeat the Clippers, as intimated in your wire to Clancy. I was going to suggest that very thing. If you and Billy can beat his club, it would be an ideal way in which to punish him. I only wish that more of the Fardale boys were here, so that they could come down and help, but vacation has scattered them.”

“That’s all very well,” interrupted Billy mournfully, “but licking the Clippers isn’t going to save this house for mother, Chip. I wish—I wish we’d taken a chance on it, and taken up that bet he offered!”

“No, you don’t,” exclaimed Merriwell. “Hold on, Billy. I haven’t finished yet.”

“Go ahead and whip Carson’s team, Frank. You and Billy and Clancy can do it if you try, and remember that I’ve every faith in all of you. Do it, and I will see that Billy and his mother do not lose the roof over their heads.

Your loving father,
Frank Merriwell, Senior.”

Merry looked up to meet his friend’s startled gaze.

“What does he mean by that, Chip?”

“Search me,” said Merry, as he stowed away the letter. “But you can be sure that father means something, all right.”

“I guess he does,” rejoined Billy, new hope dawning in his eyes. “My eyes! It’s a promise, Chip! I’ll bet he means that if we beat the Clippers he’ll lend you the coin!”

“No,” and young Merriwell shook his head decidedly. “He doesn’t think it a good plan, old man, and that ends it. Father doesn’t have to say a thing twice. Yes, it’s a promise, I imagine. I’ve no idea what he means by it, of course, but he has some kind of plan up his sleeve. You quit worrying.”

“I’ll try,” said Billy, with a sigh. “But I wish he’d said something a little more definite than that.”

“So do I, Billy,” confessed Merry. “He didn’t, so there’s no use wondering. I’m not going to say anything to Clan about this business, so now let’s go around to Jim’s house with him, then we’ll get out to the ball field again.”

Merriwell decided that the McQuades’ trouble was a personal affair. He had entered into it largely through accident, and he did not consider it a matter to share even with Clancy. So all three of the friends piled into the Hornet, Billy standing on the running board, and they made a triumphal progress to the Spaulding residence.

Despite his unbounded confidence in his father, Chip could not help feeling disappointed over that letter. However, the definite promise at the end served to relieve his anxiety, to some extent, but he could see no light upon the subject. How could his father prevent Colonel Carson from carrying out his threats?

As he obtained no answer to this mental query, Merriwell tried to forget the whole thing, and trust that his father knew best. But it was no easy matter.

That afternoon they met the other Clippings on the village green, going from there to their practice ground. Chub Newton had been given a vacation until Saturday night, and his employer had promised that if the Clippers were beaten, Chub would get full pay.

In fact, the entire town was already plunged into excitement over the sudden contest. Public disapproval of Bully Carson had long simmered beneath the surface, kept under cover by the influence and general fear of Colonel Carson.

It was not yet daring enough to show itself openly, but it peeped forth in minor ways. Every one knew that Billy McQuade, prompted by his guest from Fardale, Chip Merriwell, had dared to defy Colonel Carson. Also, that half a dozen of the town’s best local baseball talent had joined the two friends.

Consequently, the grocer’s son, who was taking Chub Newton’s place behind the counter temporarily, ran out with a bag of apples and deposited them mysteriously on the ground by the astonished Clippings. A little later, as they passed the one ice-cream parlor in the place, the proprietor appeared suddenly and thrust a paper bucket of ice cream into Spaulding’s hand, then vanished without a word.

By such tokens as these, Frank and his friends soon discovered that they were not without secret good wishers, though none of the latter dared come into the open.

“Talk about a scared town!” laughed Clancy, munching an apple vigorously. “Looks like your friend Carson had this place buffaloed for sure, Chip!”

“Well, there’s good reason for it,” explained Spaulding. “The colonel owns the bank here, and pretty near half the farms and orchards around. If he said to smash a merchant, that merchant would be apt to smash. I know, because he’s done it before this, and he’d do it again.”

“It’s a pretty poor kind of influence to hold over people,” declared Frank. “I’d hate to walk down the street and know that nine out of ten people hated me in their hearts.”

“The colonel doesn’t know it. He’s got too much vanity. And he wouldn’t care very much if he did realize it, I guess.”

“Somebody ought to l-l-lam him good,” piped Chub. “I’d l-l-like to see him run out of town!”

“Maybe you will some day,” growled McCarthy ominously.

“Don’t forget your promise,” said Frank, in a low voice.

“No danger o’ that, Merriwell. I filed them spikes o’ mine, though.”

“See here, Dan, I don’t want to have any of that work——”

“I ain’t goin’ to start anythin’, I said,” broke in the lanky youth doggedly. “And I won’t. But I ain’t goin’ to let trouble hit me over the ear, you bet. I’ll be jest as meek as a lamb until they try dirty work on me, only I want to be ready.”

Frank nodded. After all, he did not greatly blame McCarthy for distrusting the caliber of Squint Fletcher, or, for that matter, the rest of the Carsonville club. He did not believe in fighting fire with fire, but he saw that it would be useless to try argument with Dan McCarthy.

So he let the matter drop, confident that the lanky third baseman would not be the first to start any “dirty work.” The general sentiment of the Clippings was that the Clippers would not stop at anything to win, but that the umpiring would be fair.

“I want you to help me out, Clan,” said Frank, as he walked along beside his old chum. “These chaps are just aching for a good chance to start a scrap with the other team. They’ve all promised me that they’d go slow during the game, but I want you to get after ’em during practice.”

“In what way, Chip?”

“By showing them how necessary it is that they keep their heads. That’s our only hope. If our boys get rattled, the Clippers will walk away with us. Impress on them, Clan, that, no matter what provocation they get, they have to keep quiet while the game is on. What happens later doesn’t concern me.”

Clancy grinned. “All right. Count on me, Chip.”

Upon reaching the practice grounds, Merry at once sent the men to their positions. He took the bat, and for half an hour gave the entire team a driving practice work-out. The new white balls seemed, oddly enough, to put new heart into his team.

It showed them that Frank and Clancy meant business. It was a little thing, but it is just such little things that count tremendously. The red-haired chap covered first like a demon, scooping up everything that came his way. His example fired the others.

As Billy had foretold, the Clippings seemed like a different set of players. They went after the ball with a vim. Spaulding, Chub, and McCarthy tackled anything, and managed to smother the stiffest ones Frank drove at them.

In the outfield, the marvelous fielding of Nippen astonished Merriwell. The gigantic, overgrown fruit picker, in his lumbering fashion, fairly ate up the ground. When he went after a high one, he seemed never to know where it would fall, but when it came down, it invariably plunked into his mitt. He had no science, but he seemed to have luck.

“How do they strike you?” inquired Merry, as he and Clan conferred during a brief rest.

“Pretty promising bunch, Chip. But when they get up against those Clippers, it’ll be a whole lot different. Those fellows can do in their sleep what this crowd has to break their necks over.”

“That’s true, but, just the same, they’ll improve a lot by Saturday.”

Clancy shook his head doubtfully. It was clear that he was not greatly impressed by the Clippings.

The batting practice that followed served to back up Clancy’s opinions. Calling in the outfielders, Frank kept putting over nothing but outs and ins and straight fast ones, yet the batters could not seem to connect.

His coaching helped them a good deal, but nothing wonderful resulted. Nippen seemed to have spent all his energy on the one ball he had struck that morning. Chub Newton could hit nothing. Henderson was afraid to stand up to the plate, and Billy McQuade seemed to have lost his batting eye.

McCarthy, however, fell on the ball, and pounded it viciously until Frank served him up slow floaters, when he failed lamentably. Then Merry put Billy through his paces as backstop, using everything from the double shoot to the jump ball; and the work-out was over.

“It’s a bum lookout,” observed Billy, when they were walking together past the orchard to the house. “We did pretty rotten at bat to-day.”

“Oh, not so bad,” said Frank encouragingly. “We’ll all be nerved up more on Saturday, for one thing. Then remember, Bill, it isn’t the sluggers who win.”

“That’s right, Chip. Do you honestly think we’ve got a show?”

“I do,” replied Frank earnestly. “Our fellows are fine on base-throwing, and when they get to work on a decent diamond, the results will be astonishing. I really think we’ve an excellent chance, old man.”

“Then that takes a load off my mind,” said Billy, with a sigh. “I thought you’d be pretty disgusted with us.”

Frank smiled and patted him on the back cheeringly. But in his heart he felt that, while the Clippings might have a chance, it was a terribly slim one.

CHAPTER IX.
COLONEL CARSON MAKES A BET.

On Friday morning, the day before the game, Colonel Carson was standing in the lobby of the Carsonville Bank. He appeared extremely discontented.

“Not a one,” he said disgustedly. “Everybody in town is scared to bet on them Clippings.”

“I don’t wonder,” sneered Bully Carson derisively. “They’re a bunch of pick-ups.”

Bully Carson wore his most flamboyant attire, for he would not go to work-out with the Clippers for another hour. From one corner of his mouth drooped a limp cigarette.

“Too bad you can’t place a few dollars,” he went on. “It’d be easy money.”

“Is your arm all right?” inquired the colonel.

“Never better. Hello, who’s that gink?”

The two turned to gaze at the doorway. The bank had just been opened for business, and, as things were not very brisk in Carsonville, this was the first customer of the day. And he was evidently a stranger.

“Must ’a’ come in on the mornin’ train,” observed Bully.

He was a well-set-up, quietly dressed man, and would have attracted little attention save for his remarkably fine build. A soft crush hat was pulled down over a pair of very keen but pleasant eyes, and the lower portion of his face was hidden by a curly dark beard.

The stranger gave a single glance at the two, and walked to the teller’s window. With a nod and a cheery “Good morning,” he drew out a long bill book and opened it. Colonel Carson gasped and clutched at his son’s shoulder, for the bill book appeared to be crammed with yellowbacks.

“I have a couple of certified checks I’d like you to cash for me, if you will.”

His voice was quiet and self-restrained.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the teller.

The stranger shoved the two checks he had taken out through the window. The teller glanced at them, and his jaw fell. He excused himself, then beckoned to Colonel Carson to come over.

“These are pretty large checks, colonel,” he said apologetically.

“Humph!” grunted Carson, and turned to the stranger. “Made out to John Smith! Is that your name?”

“Aren’t those checks sufficient warrant?” smiled the stranger. “They’re certified, and ought to be as good as gold, Colonel Carson.”

“You know me?” The bank owner looked surprised.

“I’ve heard of you,” returned John Smith pleasantly. “You see, I’m quite a follower of baseball, though I don’t often get away from home. I’ve heard a good deal of the Carsonville Clippers, and came over to have a look at them.”

Bully Carson swelled visibly. His father turned to the teller.

“It’s all right, I guess. Two thousand is a big sum, but they’re certified. Mr. Smith, meet my son. He’s the pitcher o’ the Clippers. Goin’ to stay for the game to-morrow?”

“Perhaps,” smiled John Smith. “I’ll see what the chances are for placing a few bets around here.”

He winked knowingly, and Colonel Carson flung Bully a warning glance.

“We got an awful tough team to go up against,” he said, tugging at his goatee. “I’d like to bet on the Clippers myself, but durned if I don’t think we’ll get beat.”

Bully had caught that look.

“Yes, they got a feller named Merriwell,” he said dolefully. “I dunno’s I’ll be much good against him, either.”

“Oh, Merriwell! I’ve heard of him often,” exclaimed the stranger. “By Jove, I’d like to get a bet down on his team, whatever it is! I suppose I could see the two teams at work, couldn’t I?”

“Sure, I’ll take care o’ you, Mr. Smith,” volunteered Bully.

He went off arm in arm with the stranger, and Colonel Carson turned to his teller.

“There’s an easy mark! When Bully gets through with him, he’ll be ready to put up some real coin on them Clippings, mind my words!”

Colonel Carson’s confidence in his son was well placed. Indeed, Bully had no easy task, for not a soul in Carsonville had any great belief that the Clippers would be defeated the next day.

The stranger went out to the park with them, and was pleasantly astonished by the concrete stands and excellent diamond.

“You have quite a place here, eh,” he observed. “Go ahead, boys, don’t mind me.”

The Clippers did not appear to mind him in the least. They went to work, and, after watching them a little time, the stranger was evidently well satisfied. Bully Carson seemed to have difficulty in finding the plate. His infield gave him wretched support, making wild throws, and letting the ball tear through them.

His outfield did little better. On the whole, the stranger was anything but well impressed by the Clippers, and did not hesitate to say as much on the way back to town. Bully Carson agreed that they were in poor shape, but when the stranger had left him, he congratulated his team warmly.

“I guess that feller’s hooked,” he observed sagely, and hastened home.

After casual inquiries about town, John Smith found his way to where the team captained by Frank Merriwell, junior, was working out during the afternoon. As this was their first visitor, the Clippings displayed no little curiosity, seeing that he was a stranger to them, but he held aloof from the diamond.

“Who is he—one of the umpires?” inquired Frank.

“Search me,” returned Billy Mac. “He’s a new one in this burg.”

“It’s a scout for the Phil-l-ladel-l-lphia Ath-l-letics,” chirruped Chub Newton from second. “He’s l-l-lookin’ for recruits.”

“What’s that?” cried McCarthy excitedly, taking Chub seriously.

“Sure, he’s goin’ to sign you on, Dan,” grinned Spaulding.

McCarthy did not see the joke. He advanced to take his turn at batting, and, when Frank handed him a stiff inshoot, he fell on it and knocked the ball through Chub’s hands. Then Merry began teasing him, but he refused to bite, until he caught one on the nose and lined it out.

“Wow? Mebbe that’ll show him what Dan McCarthy can do!” he yelled, as the ball zipped.

When he discovered that he had been victimized, he turned on Chub.

“You blamed little yapper!” he said. “You’d be a whole lot s’prised to find that he was a big-league scout, wouldn’t you?”

“Yah!” piped Chub jubilantly. “L-l-line her out again, Dan!”

The stranger hung around for an hour, speaking to no one, but watching the practice intently. Finally he drifted off in the direction of town.

Once back in the town, he began inquiries as to Colonel Carson’s whereabouts. That individual was not hard to find. In fact, he was on a still hunt for the stranger, and finally encountered him near the bank.

“Well, Mr. Smith, how’d the two teams strike you?”

“The Clippers didn’t look up to much, to my mind,” said the stranger easily. “Of course, I may be mistaken, but Merriwell’s crowd seemed to be pretty good. Why, one of those fellows lammed the ball a mile, Carson!”

“Yes,” and Colonel Carson fingered his goatee, “them fellers can hit, Smith. Placed any bets yet?”

“Well, no,” replied the stranger. “I rather thought I might induce you to put up a little money.”

“I ain’t very flush right now,” said the colonel cunningly. It was not the first time that he and Bully had worked together to good advantage. “Still, I dunno as I’d mind placin’ a little on the Clippers, seeing’s they belong to me.”

“Ah, you’re a true sport!” cried Smith heartily. “Oh, by the way—I have some friends here by the name of McQuade. Perhaps you know where Mr. McQuade lives, colonel?”

“Well, yes. He lives in the cemetery, right now, Smith. He’s been dead quite a spell.”

“Dead! You don’t say!” The stranger was visibly perturbed. “Poor McQuade! He never had much head for business. I suppose he died poor?”

“He died owin’ me two thousand,” said Colonel Carson grimly. “I got a mortgage on his place over by the river, right in my safe. I’m goin’ to foreclose, too.”

“Well, well! Did he leave any family?”

“Son an’ widder,” jerked the other. “Son’s ketchin’ on Merriwell’s team.”

John Smith glanced around. The town constable stood at a little distance, and the stranger pointed at him.

“That’s the constable, isn’t it, Carson? Well, let’s bring him into your office, and if we can make a little bet, he could be stakeholder. Eh?”

Colonel Carson grinned to himself, and agreed with some show of hesitation. With the constable following, they entered the bank and sat down in the owner’s private room.

“Look here, Carson,” said the stranger affably. “I’ve been thinking this thing over. McQuade used to be an old friend of mine, and I hate to think of his widow and son being left out in the cold. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll set two thousand dollars against that mortgage you hold.

“If you win, the money’s yours. If the Clippers are beaten, then I get the mortgage. How does that sound?”

“No good,” stated Carson firmly. “The McQuade place is worth a heap more’n that sum, Smith. I got that mortgage cheap.”

The stranger looked disappointed.

“Well,” he remarked, replacing the bill book which he had taken from his inner pocket, “I don’t know that I’m very anxious to bet against the Clippers, anyway. I’d risk the sum for the sake of McQuade’s family, out of pure sentiment, but—— Well, I’ll hang about town and see if I can’t get a bit of money down on your team. After all, it’s safer.”

He rose, with a gesture of dismissal to the constable.

“Hold on!” cried Colonel Carson. “You ain’t in earnest, Smith?”

“Why, of course!” said the stranger. “Merriwell’s team is untried and green. After all, I might be foolish——”

“Set down, set down,” and the colonel reached out to his safe. “I’ve got that mortgage right here. I reckon I’ll take a chance, Smith.”

And once more he grinned to himself.

CHAPTER X.
HOW THE GAME OPENED.

Carsonville was emptying itself.

Every person in town, young and old, was a baseball enthusiast. The grand stand and bleachers of the club grounds were invariably crowded every Saturday. But on this one Saturday it seemed as though the town had gone crazy over the game.

So, after a fashion, it had. Despite its support of the Clippers, Carsonville turned out to see baseball, rather than to see the Clippers play. It loved the game for itself. Down underneath the surface, however, it cherished a warm dislike for the Clippers and their captain.

This dislike had been, perforce, hidden, for fear of antagonizing the autocrat of Carsonville. When the home team had been playing, all personalities had been forgotten in the game itself. On such occasions, even Bully Carson had become popular for the moment, if he won a game.

It was quite different on this Saturday, however. The Carsons had been defied, and when the crowd had streamed into the park, it forgot all about its fear of Colonel Carson’s power.

“I hope them Clippers get trounced! I hope Bully Carson gets knocked out of the box!” cried old Abner Powell, on whose forty acres the colonel held a heavy mortgage.

“So do I! Hurray for the Clippings!” yelled the teller of the Carsonville bank.

“Here’s where the colonel gets took down!” shouted the Carsons’ hired man.

Every one had forgotten their fears, under the magic influence of the ball park. And every one had raised the price of a seat. By general consent, it was the largest crowd that the Carsonville park had ever held.

Every man on the two teams was known personally to the fans, except Merriwell and Clancy. Even they were known by reputation, though few of the townsfolk had dared to show support by watching the Clippings practice.

The line-up of the two teams was announced that morning by bulletin:

CLIPPINGS.
McCarthy, 3d b.
Nippen, c. f.
Clancy, 1st b.
Merriwell, p.
McQuade, c.
Spaulding, 2d b.
Moore, l. f.
Henderson, r. f.
Newton, ss.

CLIPPERS.
Fletcher, c.
Burkett, 1st b.
Bangs, 3d b.
Ironton, ss.
Johnson, r. f.
Murray, 2d b.
Carson, p.
Runge, l. f.
Merrell, c. f.

The diamond was in perfect condition, its caretaker having spent all morning getting it in shape. Every line was freshly marked, every inch carefully raked free of hindrances. The very sight of it was a joy to the fans, empty though it stood.

And it was joy to Merriwell and Clancy, also, when they arrived at the clubhouse beneath the grand stand. Both had been too busy to look at the place, but they were instantly delighted by it. Meantime, the Hornet proceeded around to the field with Mrs. McQuade and Jim Spaulding’s young brother.

“It’s a peach of a place, Chip!” cried the red-haired chap.

“Yes—look at that diamond! I don’t remember when I’ve seen a better cared-for place.”

Merry continued his inspection as the rest of his team poured in to dress. There were bleachers behind first and third, all well filled, and the only symptom of neglect was in the high board fence. Directly behind second, in the center fielder’s territory, there was a strip of fence ten feet wide that had been leveled. This, it appeared, had been cut out to erect a large score board, but there had been delay in the shipment of materials, and the gap was unfilled.

Billy Mac pointed to the river, which ran about a hundred yards behind the fence.

“No home runs in this field,” he said, “unless the ball goes into the river. You see, the diamond inclosure is a little small, Chip. Outside of the fence it’s marshy, and it would have cost a lot to fill in. So they compromised on that ground rule. If the ball goes into the river, it’s a home run. It’s never yet gone in, though.”

“Queer kind of ground rule,” growled Clancy. “But there’s no accounting for tastes, so let’s try to put the ball in the water, fellows!”

“We’l-l-l try,” piped Chub resolutely. “When do we practice?”

“Right now,” exclaimed Frank. “We’re a little early, so we’ll get to work and let the Clippers howl, if they want to.”

When the Clippings walked out, they were greeted by a long yell from the fans. Then there rose a buzz of voices as the players trotted out to their places, and Merry began to drive hot ones along the infield.

Every one was wondering how the home talent would show up. No sooner had the ball begun to snap around the bases than shout after shout pealed up. Despite their rare and wonderful uniforms, the Clippings showed form!

Even Frank was surprised. On the level diamond his team proved that they could do something, after all. They went after the ball with ginger, and the way they snapped it up was astonishing.

The Clippers now produced themselves, and promptly spread out behind the foul lines to inspect their opponents. They delivered themselves of comments, which were audible over most of the field.

“Look at the uniforms!” yelled Squint Fletcher. “They used them kind fifty years ago! Pipe the Irish third baseman! Wow!”

“Who’s that scrubby runt playin’ short?” cried Ironton, waving his fists. “Wait till I land on him!”

“I’l-l-l show you!” chirped Newton angrily. “Wait til-l-l——”

“Listen to him!” cried Ironton. “Wow! He talks like a washing machine!”

Even the crowd laughed at that, for every one knew Chub. The little fellow lost his temper, and sent the ball far over third.

“They’re easy,” commented Bully, in contempt. “We got their goat already. You watch when that Merriwell gets up to the plate. I’ll lam him in the head.”

“You’d better try it!” retorted Clancy heatedly. Merry signed to him to walk up toward the box, with Chub.

“You fellows keep quiet,” he said. “Pass the word around not to give any back talk unnecessarily. First thing we know, this will be a free-for-all, and we have to avoid that if possible.”

The Clippings tried to restrain themselves, but it was hard work for them to keep from answering the taunts that poured in from Bully Carson’s men. At length, Frank signed to his team, and they trotted in. The Clippers spread out on the field, and began to amuse themselves with threats of what they would do to their opponents, while they tossed the ball around.

In Colonel Carson’s private box, square in the center of the grand stand, sat the colonel and his new acquaintance, John Smith. The latter had accepted the proffered seat gratefully, though he refused the proffered stogies, pleading that his health did not permit smoking.

As the Clippings came in to their bench, they looked up and saw the stranger.

“There’s your scout, Dan,” chuckled Billy. “Only it looks like he was friends with the wrong side.”

The stranger waved a hand at them.

“Go in and win!” he cried. “You’ve got ’em licked, Merriwell!”

“You bet!” returned Clancy quickly. “Just watch our smoke, Whiskers!”

The stranger’s white teeth flashed through his beard, and he turned his attention to the Clippers as they fell to work.

“They seem to do better than they did yesterday,” he remarked suddenly.

Colonel Carson leaned back and grinned complacently.

“I reckon they slept well last night, Smith,” he drawled. “Any team is liable to an off day, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Smith sharply. “It looks to me as if you had let me in for a bit of sharp practice, Carson.”

“Sport is sport,” observed the colonel, with a grin. “You risks your money, and you takes your chance.”

“I’ve a good mind to call the bet off!”

“No, ye don’t! The constable’s down keepin’ order in the bleachers, and you can’t locate him ’fore the game starts if ye want to. ’Sides, I reckon you ain’t a welsher.”

The stranger allowed himself to be soothed down, and settled himself to watch the progress of things.

Frank and Bully Carson met with the two umpires, and went over the ground rule regarding a home run.

“No chance o’ your scrubs gettin’ the ball in the river,” jeered Carson. “Don’t need to worry over it. Ain’t never been done, anyhow!”

“That’s no sign it can’t be done,” said Frank, with a smile.

A gong rang out. Merry and Carson quickly discussed the question of outs and ins, while the umpires were announcing the batteries.

“I’d like to git in the box first crack, an’ knock your block off,” growled Bully. “But I dunno’s I wouldn’t jest as soon knock you out o’ the box. Take your choice.”

“Thanks,” said Merry easily. “Since you’re so kind, I think we’ll give you a chance to get a home run, Bully. According to the batting order, I’m afraid you won’t get a crack till the third inning, though.”

Carson, whose name stood seventh on the list, glowered derisively.

“Huh! We’ll prob’bly bat around twice in the first inning, you joke! You’d better get another pitcher warmin’ up.”

“Come on, Bully,” cried Squint Fletcher. “Leave that poor simp alone!”

No one had any need to hear the umpires’ announcement, and it was drowned in a roar of cheers as the Clippings went out to their positions. Colonel Carson glowered and tugged at his goatee, then smiled as Squint Fletcher advanced to the plate amid a mingling of hisses and cheers. Squint had his backers, who liked him for his rough-and-ready tactics.

Indeed, it soon developed that the Clippers were not without friends. The general sentiment was against them, but there were plenty of hoodlums and toadies who were willing to cheer them. Also, many farmers had come in, who were used to yelling for the Clippers.

The umpires took their positions, and Merry whipped over three balls to Billy. Squint stepped up to the plate, with a sneer, and balanced himself aggressively. Billy Mac signed for the double shoot.

Frank nodded, took his time, and, amid a wild shriek of delight from the crowd, delivered the first pitched ball. Squint Fletcher pulled down his bat—and there was a crack like a pistol shot.

Squint had landed square on Frank Merriwell, junior’s, famous double shoot!

CHAPTER XI.
THE CLIPPINGS GET WILD.

The connection, however, was so plainly an accident, and Squint himself looked so bewildered, that every one roared with laughter.

The ball went almost straight up in the air over first, until it seemed to lose itself in the sky. Fletcher came pounding down the base line, while Bully Carson, behind first, sent a roar at Clancy.

The red-haired first baseman was not rattled, however. He calmly stepped back, pulled down his cap, and waited. The ball came down like a bullet and stuck in his glove.

“Out!”

Roar after roar of applause went up. The Clippings, who had been nervous and unsettled, instantly regained their poise and confidence.

“Take your time, Chip!” snapped Spaulding, from second.

“That’s the ticket, old man!” cried McCarthy encouragingly.

“L-l-lam into ’em!” piped up Chub.

Frank smiled. Burkett, who covered first for the Clippers, advanced to the plate, pulled down his cap, and waited.

“We’re all behind you, old-timer,” chirped Clancy.

“Let him hit it, Chip!” cried Billy. None the less, he signaled for an inshoot.

Burkett was plainly anxious to hit. Frank put over a fast inshoot. The ball fairly smoked with speed, and Burkett swung too late.

“Strike—uh—one!”

“Land on him!” yelled Bully Carson. “All he’s got is speed!”

Billy called for another of the same, but Merry shook his head. He guessed that Burkett wanted speed, and would be looking for it, so he put over a fadeaway that drew Burkett for another strike.

“This fellow’s a cinch!” cried Billy. Burkett looked determined.

Studying him for a moment, Frank nodded at the signal for a jump ball. He sent the sphere down to the plate waist-high. Burkett brought down his bat, but the ball seemed to jump over it, and plunked into Billy’s mitt.

“Out!”

Cheer after cheer rolled up, as Burkett sullenly retreated, and was replaced by Bangs. The Clipper third baseman was a wiry, alert fellow, and he chopped down his bat as if ready for anything that could come along. Merry determined to let him hit.

So, without pretending to pitch, he merely tossed over the ball and waited. Bangs gasped, then struck viciously. Another crack, and the ball went on a bee line to McCarthy. And Dan fumbled it.

A groan swelled out from the crowd, but it changed instantly to a cheer. For McCarthy had picked up the ball and slammed it over to Clancy a yard ahead of Bangs.

“One, two, three!” yelled the crowd, confident now that it would see a real game of ball. A storm of applause greeted the Clippings as they walked in.

“Rotten fumble,” grunted McCarthy.

“Don’t you believe it!” cried Clancy, slapping his shoulder. “You retrieved it before it had a chance to work, Dan. Fine business!”

“You’re up first, Dan,” said Merry. “Now go in and repeat!”

McCarthy grinned happily, and strode out to the plate. He waited while Carson tossed over his warmers-up.

“This pie-eater’s pretty soft, Bully,” snarled Squint. “Let him hit. He ain’t worth fanning.”

The lanky chap opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, and stepped into the box. Carson eyed him a moment, and the bleachers fell silent in suspense.

“Speed fer him, Bully,” cried Fletcher. “He’s scared already.”

Carson nodded and wound up. The ball seemed to come with startling speed. In reality it was a slow fader, and it fooled McCarthy completely.

“Strike—uh—one!”

Squint returned the ball. Almost without a pause, Carson snapped over a hot one across the inside corner. Dan was taken by surprise, and a second strike was called. It was followed by a third.

“This bunch of rubes is soft!” chirruped Bangs from third.

“Whoop! Down they go!” cried Ironton, as the big Nippen stalked out.

“Who’s the cow?” inquired Murray, from second. Carson grinned.

“This is an animal show, Bully,” snapped Squint. “Watch the elephant fan his ears!”

The crowd could not help laughing at the awkward figure of Nippen. Carson burned a hot one across. Nippen swung, after it had plunked home.

“Gone to sleep at the switch!” grunted Squint, while the bleachers roared a storm of advice and criticism. The big fellow flushed angrily.

“Hit him in the ribs and wake him up!” cried Murray.

Carson grinned again. He sent over a smoking-hot ball that forced Nippen to leap back. The huge fruit-picker looked at him furiously.

“You watch out!” he cried warmly.

“Shut up, Nippen,” exclaimed Merry. “He doesn’t dare hit you.”

As if to disprove this, Carson launched another in the same place. Nippen jumped back, and, as his bat fell, the ball struck against it and rolled out into the diamond.

The big fellow leaped out toward first. Bangs darted in to secure the ball, laughing as he did so. He straightened up with it, and slapped it to Burkett, but a cry of amazement went up. Nippen had beaten out the throw!

“Watch the elephant run!” shrieked the fans.

Clancy walked out to the plate, while Chub went down to coach at first.

“Hello, carrot-top!” growled Squint. “Watch out you don’t scorch the ball on his thatch, Bully!”

Carson knew that Clancy was dangerous. He put over a fast drop, but Clan refused to bite. Then came a slow fadeaway, and the red-haired chap took it on the nose.

There was a groan of dismay. The ball soared high, and Merrell raced back toward the fence. Then he stopped, and waited, and the ball came down into his glove.

Nippen, showing poor judgment, had dashed for second as soon as the ball settled softly in Merrell’s glove. The center fielder did not wait an instant, however, and threw the ball to Murray, who made Nippen an easy out.

The Clippings were retired. The inning was over, without a run.

“We’re holding them, fellows,” said Frank quietly, as they walked out. “Keep up the good work, and we’ll win, sure.”

“We’ll do it, Chip,” cried Spaulding.

“L-l-look out for Ironton,” snapped Chub, as the Clipper shortstop walked out. “He’s l-l-like-l-ly to start something.”

Billy Mac evidently thought the same thing, for he signaled for the double shoot. Merry shook his head, and compromised on the jump ball. Ironton struck vainly.

“Hoop-a-la!” sang out Clancy. “He’s going!”

“Let him soak it,” pleaded McCarthy. “We’re all behind you, old scout!”

Billy called for a fast drop. Although doubtful of its wisdom, Frank put it across, and Ironton murdered it. With a clean crack, the ball began to soar toward center field, and Ironton went racing toward first.

“Wake up, Nippen!” roared the fans. “What’s the matter with the elephant?”

The huge fruit-picker stood staring up at the ball. Suddenly he turned and began lumbering toward the fence. He did not even look over his shoulder at the ball, but continued through the ten-foot gap, while the crowd sent a storm of catcalls after him.

“He must be going for a swim!” gasped Merry.

“Whoop!” yelled Dan McCarthy. “Look there!”

Nippen had turned abruptly. The ball was seen to fall squarely into his glove—and stick! A wild roar rose from the crowd, then it died away into a groan, as the base umpire motioned Ironton to hold third.

“What does this mean?” exclaimed Frank, walking back. “That ball was caught!”

“Outside the fence,” said the umpire. “That gap shouldn’t be there by rights. It went over the fence, and Ironton is entitled to his three-bagger.”

“By gum!” yelled McCarthy wrathfully. “What kind of——”

“Quiet!” snapped Frank.

He turned and waved back his angry players, who were crowding forward.

“That’s a mighty queer decision,” he said, forcing himself to calmness. “Does it go for every ball that drops outside the fence?”

“Yes,” said the umpire.

Frank saw that the umpire regretted his hasty decision, but would not change it.

“All right,” he said.

The crowd looked at it otherwise, however. One howl of indignant surprise went up as Ironton was seen to be safe. The mob threatened to pour out on the field, and only when Frank was seen to be taking up his position again did the fans restrain themselves.

As for the Clippings, they could not understand the decision. It looked to them like foul play, though Merry saw that the umpire had not meant to be unfair. Nippen started to bellow out his rage, Spaulding managed to quiet him, and the game proceeded. But the Clippings had been demoralized.

This became evident when Johnson popped up a foul. McCarthy went after it, and let it drop. He made a throw to catch Ironton at the plate, and sent the ball into the grand-stand wiring. Ironton scored and Johnson stopped at second.

Frank saw that the balloon was going up, and wasted no more time. He struck out Murray with three pitched balls, and then Carson slouched up to the plate with a wide grin.

“Good-by!” he called cheerfully. “Here’s where we knock the Fardale wonder out!”

His hopes were not realized, however. Frank handed him a fadeaway, and Carson swung vainly. Billy called for the double shoot. Carson saw the ball break for an in, and brought down his bat, but the sphere suddenly curved away from him.

“Strike—uh—two!”

Mindful of the fellow’s threats, Frank put all his speed into the next ball. It was a shoulder-high, straight one, that nipped the inside corner of the plate. So fast was it, that Carson instinctively jumped back, then flung down his bat with a curse. As he did so, Johnson leaped toward third.

Billy whipped off his mask and slapped the ball to Dan. The lanky chap took it and slammed it down on Johnson in a cloud of dust. The Clippers were retired.

“See here, fellows,” pleaded Merry, as he picked out his bat, “this has to stop right now! Cool down, everybody. Billy, you work Carson for your base. Clan, get down to first and coach. We’ve got to break their streak.”

And Merry went out to the plate, with a badly demoralized crowd on the bench behind him.

CHAPTER XII.
CLIPPING THE CLIPPERS.

“Here’s the boy wonder!” announced Squint Fletcher. “Soak him in the bean!”

As Carson began to wind up, a voice pierced the roar of cheers that startled Frank. It seemed like a voice that he knew well.

“Fardale forever! Hurrah for old Fardale!”

Merry could not tell whence that voice came, but he gripped his bat hard at the sound of it. Carson unwound, and a white streak shot toward the plate.

Whether he intended it or not, the ball came straight for Frank, who was forced to step back. Squint grinned.

“Look out for your bean!”

Again Carson sent the ball whizzing down, but this time Merry connected. There was a crack, and the sphere went sailing over second, and Frank went to first.

“Hold it!” cautioned Clancy, as Billy came up to the plate.

“Here’s the champion human mistake, Bully!” sang out Squint.

Carson gave Billy a black look and whipped over the horsehide.

“Ball—one!” announced the umpire. A storm of cheers floated across the field.

The next ball broke sharply. It struck Billy on the arm, and the backstop at once flung away his bat and took first. He gave Frank a grin as the latter advanced.

Spaulding came up, and Carson fanned him. The Clippers were evidently waking up.

Moore managed to pop up a weak fly, which Ironton gathered in easily. Henderson followed, and struck out, leaving Billy on first and Frank marooned on second. Two innings were finished, and the Clippers were one run to the good.

In the third, Merry shut out the Clippers, but, although McCarthy connected for a long drive, he was caught trying for third. In the fourth the heavy end of the Clippers was up, but Burkett, Bangs, and Ironton fanned in beautiful harmony. Clancy was up for the Clippings.

“Lay out a soft one, Clan,” said Merry. “This has been an old-time slugging match so far. Get to first, and work the hit-and-run.”

The red-haired chap nodded and stepped to the plate. Carson sent over a wide one, and Clancy swung viciously, drawing a chuckle from Squint. Again he swung at a poor one, then Carson lashed a fast high one across.

To the surprise of the Clippers, Clancy choked his bat and laid a neat bunt down the third-base line. So astonished was Bangs that Clancy beat his throw easily, and Frank came up to bat, smiling.

Carson paused, scowling. He did not like Merry’s smile, and knew that his speed had not fooled Frank before. So he wound up as if delivering a fast one, and his famous slow fadeaway floated down toward the plate.

Instantly Clancy was sprinting for second. Merry was not altogether fooled by that delivery, and he fell on the ball for a short, choppy stroke that sent the sphere zipping along the ground to Carson.

The pitcher tried to stop it, but it went through him. Murray was backing him up, but before the ball reached first, Merry was standing on the bag, and Clancy was safe. Roar upon roar swelled out from the fans; but Frank did not again hear the voice which had startled him.

Billy McQuade strode out and pounded the plate with a determined air. Carson fooled him twice with a slow fader, and, at the second strike, Merry gave Clancy the signal for a double steal, doubting whether Billy could connect.

As Carson unwound, the two sprinted for third and second. Billy saw the movement, and stepped forward desperately. He managed to bunt, and, although he was nailed at first, Clancy and Frank were safe.

It seemed as though they would remain safe, however, for Spaulding put up a foul tip that was easily smothered by Squint Fletcher. Moore came up, and as he was a notoriously weak batter, Frank gave his chum the signal to steal.

Clancy grinned, ready for anything. Carson kept him close to third, but, as the big pitcher wound up again, Clancy went toward home like a streak. Instantly Carson let the ball fly.

Moore, however, knew his business. He was in his box, and, although Squint yelled at him to get out of the way, he stepped forward and bunted the ball along the first-base line. Clancy came sliding to the plate in a cloud of dust, and the umpire motioned him safe, Moore, in the meantime, getting to first.

Squint at once moved for a new trial, but the umpire denied the motion, and the Clippings and their admirers sent up a shrill yell as they knew the score was tied. During the argument Frank stole third, but an instant later Moore was caught off first, and the inning was over, with the score tied.

The fifth, sixth, and seventh passed without another run. In the eighth, Runge took third on a long fly, which Henderson dropped, but he died there. Henderson made good his error by a hit in the next half, and Chub Newton astonished every one by getting another, but the Clippers woke up and effected a beautiful double play that retired the side.

The ninth opened with the heavy end of both sides at bat. The crowd was now silent and tense, for the game was apt to jump either way without warning. Merriwell seemed airtight, and Carson had superb support behind him.

Squint Fletcher strode up to the plate, and came down on the first ball Frank put over. The hit was a clean one, the sphere flying out between Moore and Nippen for a Texas leaguer, but Squint was not content with this. He tore around first and went on to second like a whirlwind.

Moore sent the ball in to Spaulding perfectly. The second baseman stood off the line, and, as he stooped for the catch, Squint came slamming into him in a whirl of dust. The ball was seen to drop, and, when the dust cleared off, Spaulding was fiercely addressing the grinning Squint, whose spikes had gone into his leg.

“Rotten! Murder him!” went up the yell.

“Dirty work! Smash him, Jim!” cried McCarthy.

Spaulding was about to obey, when Chip Merriwell leaped on him and restored him to sanity. Muttering, the angry Spaulding wiped the blood from his leg and limped to his place. Frank returned to his box, glad that trouble had been avoided.

Burkett fanned, but Bangs clipped a high one that Moore misjudged. Squint was halted at third, while Bangs took second on a close decision, with one out. Ironton came up and deliberately stepped into Merry’s double shoot, but did it so cleverly that the umpire was deceived into giving him a base. The sacks were filled.

The next man up was Johnson. Frank fooled him once, then snapped the ball to Clancy in an endeavor to catch Ironton. The effort failed, but Squint Fletcher took a chance on reaching home.

Clancy sent in the ball far ahead of him, and Squint turned to get back to third. As he did so, Billy put the ball into McCarthy’s hand. Squint gave a yell and flung himself at Dan feet first, in an undoubted effort to spike.

A shout of anger burst from every man on the field. The lanky McCarthy was not so easily caught, however. As Squint came at him, he writhed aside and drove down his fist with the ball into Fletcher’s face.

Squint was knocked a yard away, and rose with a yell of wrath, blood streaming from his nose. McCarthy was only too ready to pitch into him, but Bully Carson dragged his backstop away, and Merry caught Dan by the shoulder.

“You paid him out for spiking Jim,” cried Frank. “Now simmer down, Dan.”

Squint was greeted with howls and catcalls as he came in. But, during the storm, Bangs had stolen third, and Ironton had taken second. Frank gave Johnson a fast high one, and Johnson hammered it for two sacks.

Murray fanned, but the evil was done. The score stood three to one, and the Clippings seemed lost when McCarthy came out to the plate and went out on a high fly. The crowd began to stream away from the field.

Nippen lumbered up to the plate, and, with a grin, Carson handed him an out. A shriek of astonishment went up as the huge fruit-picker connected. The ball went up and up, and the Clipper outfield raced back. Then they halted in dismay.

Silence fell on the crowd—broken by a gasp. Nippen passed second, rounded third, and held on home. The ball not only cleared the fence, but—dropped into the river! The huge outfielder had knocked a homer!

When the fans understood what had happened, they went wild. Amid the confusion, Clancy came to bat and rapped out a single. The field became a bedlam. Shrieks and wild yells rose on every side, and the thump of feet rose into a dull thunder. When Merry came out to bat, the entire crowd went crazy all over again.

As for the Clippers, they were thunderstruck. Carson tried to gain time, but the umpire commanded him to play ball, and he threw a vicious one straight at Frank’s head. Merry calmly stepped back and bunted it toward first.

Carson leaped for it and fumbled. Clancy sprinted down to second, and, before the big fellow could decide where the ball ought to go, Merry was safe on first and Clancy was taking third.

“Wake up, you bonehead!” growled Squint, as he walked out and met his captain. “Say, you’re the limit!”

“He’s l-l-limited, al-l-l right!” chirruped Chub, from behind third. “The bal-l-loon’s gone up, fel-l-lows! Tag al-l-long!”

Carson scowled as Billy Mac faced him. Frank seized his chance and went down to second. Again the crowd lost its head with delight, yelling and stamping in a frenzied manner.

“Finish it up, you bonehead,” grated Squint. “Fan this man and we have ’em.”

Billy laughed. A moment later the ball came down, and he cracked it squarely. It shot back at Carson like a bullet. The big fellow leaped aside amid a yell of derision, and, before Murray had fielded it, Clancy and Merriwell had crossed the plate.

The Clippings had clipped the Clippers!

Merry and Billy reached the shelter of the dressing room first, but the rest of the team was caught by the frenzied crowd. As the two entered, they found the black-bearded stranger waiting for them. He held out a paper to Billy.

“Here,” he said, with a laugh, “is something for your mother, Billy. I think you won it pretty fairly, old man!”

The stranger caught at his beard, and it came off in his hand. Chip took one glance, then leaped for him with a yell.

Frank Merriwell's Diamond Foes; Or, Straight Over the Plate

Transcriber’s Notes:

Frank Merriwell’s Diamond FoesORSTRAIGHT OVER THE PLATE

CHAPTER I.COLONEL CARSON, OF CARSONVILLE.

CHAPTER II.WHY BILLY LEFT SCHOOL.

CHAPTER III.LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.

CHAPTER IV.COLONEL CARSON’S REVENGE.

CHAPTER V.THE VILLAGE GREEN.

CHAPTER VI.A CHALLENGE.

CHAPTER VII.CHIP GETS A LETTER.

CHAPTER VIII.GETTING DOWN TO WORK.

CHAPTER IX.COLONEL CARSON MAKES A BET.

CHAPTER X.HOW THE GAME OPENED.

CHAPTER XI.THE CLIPPINGS GET WILD.

CHAPTER XII.CLIPPING THE CLIPPERS.