“There’s nothing like being square, fellows. You can’t beat it, I don’t
care what any one says. It’s not so much whether you win or lose, it’s
simply that you feel square inside. That’s what Davy Crockett meant
when he said: ‘Be sure you’re right, then go ahead!’ Davy didn’t care a
snap about dying--he knew he was right, and he won out!”
“Lecture on history by Frank Merriwell, senior,” laughed Chip. His
father smiled as he watched the lights of the train flashing up the
valley.
“It’s a fact,” he went on, turning to Chip and Billy McQuade and
Clancy, who had accompanied him to the train. “I’m not preaching, and
you know it.”
“But Davy Crockett died in the Alamo,” interjected Clancy doubtfully.
“Sure,” flashed back Frank Merriwell, senior. “That’s why he won,
that’s why he’ll live forever, Clancy. He knew he was right--get that?
Defeat is no sign of failure, not a bit of it. This Colonel Carson, of
Carsonville, has been winning consistently until you fellows turned the
trick on him. Now he’s started in to reap the whirlwind.”
“He reaped it, all right, when Chip pitched to-day,” said Billy Mac.
“He reaped a few double shoots he didn’t expect--or, rather, the
Clippers did.”
“You’ve got the idea,” said Merriwell, as the train pulled in. “Well,
so long for the present, everybody. Good luck to you on Monday, Frank!
I’ll try to run down from Bloomfield to see that game, but I can’t
promise. I’ve got some important affairs on with Dick--you’ll learn
about them later.”
He handed his grip to the porter and sprang up the steps. The
eleven-o’clock express was already late, and there was only time for a
last wave of the hand before the train began to move, then drew away
into the night.
“I wish you fellows wouldn’t go to the hotel,” said Billy, as the three
friends started toward town. “We’ve all kinds of room at home.”
Chip flung his arm over the other’s shoulder, smiling.
“Cheer up, Billy! Clan and I haven’t had much chance to get together
since he came home from the West, you know. We’ll have an old-time
gabfest, and will get acquainted again before we come up to the house
to-morrow. By gracious, these streets are dark!”
“I’m sorry now we didn’t come down in the _Hornet_,” said Clancy
regretfully. “We could have piled into her somehow.”
Late Saturday night in Carsonville was, indeed, a dark time, especially
for the Carsonville Clippers!
* * * * *
Quite naturally, Colonel Carson and his son had not taken their beating
with a good grace. Bully Carson was an excellent pitcher, but so far
did Chip outclass him, that he and his father were furious over the
disgrace of being beaten by a pick-up nine from their own home town.
No sooner was the game over, than they put their heads together in
order to concoct a plan which would assist them both in humiliating
the Merriwells and in winning a few side bets upon the Franklin game.
Colonel Carson was fond of gambling, but he usually liked to know
beforehand which way the game was going to come out.
As a result of their conference, the astute colonel hurriedly caught
the late afternoon train for Fardale, determined to gain revenge on
Chip and his father, and recoup his losses at the same time.
He needed only a lever in order to get his machinations into working
order, and this lever he found in the person of Bob Randall. Having
discovered that his nephew was not cut on his own pattern and merely
disliked Chip Merriwell with an open and manly fervor, he had changed
his tactics. Obtaining the information he was after, he caught the late
train back to Carsonville, passing that which bore Frank Merriwell,
senior, on the way. Things were shaping themselves very nicely, indeed,
he reflected.
Meantime, Bully Carson had been busy trying to obtain his own revenge.
During the evening his team met at the town pool room, which they
frequented the greater part of the time, and Bully set to work.
Squint Fletcher, his catcher, could barely walk. Bully passed him up
with a scowl, and turned to the rest of the assembled Clippers.
“We hadn’t ought to let them fellers get away with it,” he declared
cunningly. “They put the spurs to us right, then they beat up Squint
here.”
“If you hadn’t blown up they wouldn’t have beaten us,” growled Ironton,
the Clippers’ shortstop.
This criticism was quite true. But Bully Carson was loath to admit it,
so he merely frowned the more.
“If we’d had a little decent support from you guys,” he snapped, “I
wouldn’t have gone up. How can a pitcher do anything when he don’t get
any support?”
“How can he get support when his balls get knocked a mile outside the
grounds?” snapped back Ironton.
A general grin went up at Carson’s expense. It was quite true that when
he had started to lose his head, Chip’s men had fallen on him and
pounded the ball unmercifully, and Bully knew it.
“Well,” he insisted surlily, “we oughtn’t to let ’em get away with
it, just the same. They’d ought to go back home so’s they’d know what
they’d been up against.”
A general mutter of assent went up. On this point, at least, it was
evident that the Clippers thoroughly agreed with their captain.
“Well, what’s the process?” inquired Murray, the second baseman.
Bully gathered them around him, with a wary glance at the other
occupants of the pool room. He lit a cigarette, got it drooping in
approved fashion from one corner of his mouth, then explained himself.
“I happen to know that Merriwell’s old man is goin’ off by the express.
I heard ’em say somethin’ about it. More’n likely, the kid and that
carrot top who played first will come down to see the old man off. It’s
gettin’ along toward train time, and if we went down we’d be liable to
meet them two comin’ back. If the whole crowd’s with ’em, so much the
better.”
“Count me out,” growled Squint Fletcher. “I got both eyes shut.”
“It ain’t so bad, Bully,” said Ironton. “We can beat ’em up proper, eh?
Guess there’s enough of us without Squint.”
Bully Carson’s proposal was accepted without any great enthusiasm,
but it was decided that Merriwell and his friends needed a lesson,
consequently they must be given it without delay.
So, after rolling fresh cigarettes, the party decamped toward the
railroad station. There were six of them, all told, for two had
remained to help Squint Fletcher home, but it was conceded that six
Clippers would be enough to handle Merriwell and as many of his “gang”
as might be with him.
While nearing the station, which was situated at some little distance
from the center of town, the train was heard pulling out. Ironton had
hastened ahead, and a moment later he returned with word that Merriwell
and two others were coming. The Clippers hastily disposed themselves in
a dark doorway.