There was no doubt that the Clippers were a drawing card.
Although their team was one of the best in the Amateur League, the
rumor had spread abroad that it had been largely reconstructed by
Colonel Carson for this game, and the near-by towns had sent their
contingents of fans, in no little expectation.
Fardale field was crowded long before the time for the game. Before
two o’clock the grand stand was sold out. There was no overflow crowd,
since the long bleachers were full able to handle every one, but
automobiles were parked by the score at all available points, and it
looked as if ground rules would have to go into effect.
There had been a big shift in the Fardale team, also. News of this had
leaked out, and consequently both cadets and baseball fans were eager
to see what Captain Merriwell had done in the way of a shake-up.
Man after man purchased a score card, and then gazed at it in blank
amazement. If he happened to be a Fardale rooter, the amazement was
tinctured with dismay. If he was a Clipper fan, he stared at his card
in perplexity, and began to ask questions of the men around him.
This was the line-up that caused the crowd so much confusion:
FARDALE.
Lowe, 3d b.
O’Day, r. f.
Kess, 2d b.
Clancy, 1st b.
Merriwell, p.
Harker, ss.
McQuade, c.
Chester, l. f.
Lang, c. f.
CLIPPERS.
Ironton, ss.
Murray, 2d b.
Green, p.
Smith, 1st b.
Olcott, c.
Johnson, r. f.
Craven, 3d b.
Runge, l. f.
Merrell, c. f.
“That’s a queer proposition,” said a Clipper fan, turning to the man
behind him. “Who’s this fellow Green? And Smith?”
“Search me. All we got left o’ the old Clippers is short and second.”
Over in the Fardale bleachers there was little short of a sensation,
for Chip’s line-up had not been made public before the game.
“We’re gone!” groaned one man despairingly. “With Kess on second and
O’Day out in the field, it’s ‘good night’ for us!”
“Merriwell must be crazy,” exclaimed another. “That blundering Dutchman
can’t hit beans! And Lowe and Harker switched around, and a substitute
in left field! I wish Ted Crockett had remained captain, by thunder!”
“Oh, pickles!” scoffed a plebe derisively. “Who left the door open for
you to get in? You wait and see what happens to those Clippers!”
None the less, Fardale was anxious. So were the Clipper sympathizers.
When the time for practice drew near, the crowd was literally on its
toes, watching for the first sight of the players. Both teams were
an unknown quantity, in their present shape, and the only comfort
remaining to Fardale was that Merriwell was slated to pitch. The
umpires were two Yale men, specially obtained for the occasion.
Frank was forced to dismiss his worry over Bob Randall, as the time for
work drew near. Nothing had been seen of Bully Carson, and Randall was
due to witness the game from the principal’s box--partly as a guest,
partly under surveillance. The village constable was somewhere about
the field, hunting for Carson.
Colonel Carson himself was in evidence in the grand stand, laying as
many bets as he could find Fardale takers. Most of these latter were
out-of-town men, for there were few among the cadets themselves who
cared to do any gambling. The colonel knew nothing of his son, it
appeared, and had not seen him that day.
“I’ve heard a lot about this Merriwell guy,” stated a Fardale fan to
the world at large. “Has he got anything?”
“Has he!” A fat man below him turned around, brandishing a fan in one
hand and a pop bottle in the other. “Say, ever see the old Frank
Merriwell pitch?”
“Uh-huh, once.”
“Well, the kid is a chip of the old block, take it from me!”
“I guess I’ll not let Colonel Carson slide past me, then,” and the
Fardale rooter took out his pocketbook.
Finally a tremendous burst of cheering started in the bleachers and
gradually spread around the field. The two teams had arrived for
practice work! Every head was craned to look, and a howl of expectation
rose as the Clippers took the field first.
The howl rose to a roar of applause as the ball began to whip around.
The new Clipper infield was a wonder! Their precision was magnificent,
and the way they put the sphere to the bases made Fardale gasp.
With Coach Trayne, Merry stood watching them work. Off to one side,
Green was limbering up with his catcher, Olcott. He was a tall,
slender, wiry man with a very brown face and terrific speed to his
practice ball.
“Chip, that fellow is a tartar!” murmured the coach. “Watch how easily
he puts those sizzlers down, eh? He moves as if every muscle was run by
clockwork!”
“He certainly is a beautiful pitcher,” Frank said admiringly. “And look
there--see that fellow Craven pick up that hot one! Ironton and Murray
are the only infielders left from their old team, but I guess Colonel
Carson knew his business!”
Wild cheers went up as Craven picked a sizzler from the ground, darted
to his base, and sent the ball across to third like a bullet. Just then
a bat boy touched Merry’s arm.
“A man in one of the boxes wants to speak to you, Chip.”
Frank followed his guide back to the grand stand. A keen-eyed man
with a long black cigar in his mouth was standing by the netting, and
beckoned.
“You wanted me?”
“Yes. Say, Merriwell, do you know that fellow Green--the Clippers’
pitcher?”
“Why, no,” returned Chip, smiling. “He looks mighty good, though.”
“Well, I’m a traveling man, but I’m rooting for Fardale. Did you ever
hear of Southpaw Diggs?”
“Often. He’s one of the best pitchers in the country, if he’d let booze
alone. What’s on your mind?”
“That fellow Green is a dead ringer for Diggs, Merriwell! He ain’t got
Diggs’ big rainbow mustache, but I’ve seen Diggs work too often not to
recognize that wind-up.”
Frank looked up at the man, startled.
“Impossible, my friend! The Clippers are all amateurs----”
“Oh, rats! I know too much about the game to swallow that talk,
Merriwell, especially when Colonel Carson talks it.”
Merry looked troubled. He knew Carson was crooked as a corkscrew, but
it was incredible that such a barefaced thing could be attempted.
“If you can swear that Diggs and Green are one and the same,” suggested
Frank, frowning, “we could protest him.”
“No,” returned the traveling man regretfully. “I never seen Diggs close
up, but I could recognize that wind-up a mile away. I couldn’t swear to
it very well, though.”
“Then the game has to go on,” said Frank.
At this point the man next to his informant, who had been listening,
chipped in the conversation.
“Old man Carson is betting all kinds of money, Merriwell. If that
fellow is really Diggs, would it queer the bets?”
“Not exactly,” said Merry. “If we could prove it, of course, the bets
would be off, and so would the game. But I see no chance of proving it.”
“Well, I’m backin’ your crowd,” went on the man anxiously. “I had a bet
at even money with the colonel’s son, but he must have got cold feet.
He ain’t showed up.”
“Was it much of a bet?” asked Frank.
“A thousand even.”
“You’d better keep your money in your pocket,” advised Chip, turning
away. “Betting is mighty poor business, especially where the Carson
crowd is mixed up in it.”
He stood looking across the field, suddenly thoughtful. A thousand
dollars--and Bully Carson also had boasted that he had a thousand in
cash to bet--and Hostetter had been robbed of exactly that amount!
“That’s a mighty queer coincidence,” reflected Merry, worried.
“Hostetter and Bully were friends, according to Colonel Gunn. Could it
be possible that Carson did steal that money? But where is he now?”
That was a mystery. Evidently Bully had failed to meet the man with
whom he was to bet, yet he had left Randall’s room for that express
purpose.
“I believe he can explain that theft,” muttered Frank. “And I’ll make
it my business to find him after the game.”
Returning to Coach Trayne, he repeated the information given him by the
traveling man, and Trayne watched Green closely.
“He does resemble Diggs in general outline,” admitted the coach. “And
his wind-up and delivery are exactly similar. Chip, I’ve a good notion
to stop this game now!”
“You’ve no proof, Mr. Trayne. The Clippers are vouched for as amateurs
by their owner, and even if he has put in a few ringers, that can’t
hurt our standing, if we play them. And it would be a bad business to
start something we can’t finish.”
Trayne saw the justice of this argument, and Merry caught up his glove,
as the bell rang, and ran out. While he was warming up with Billy Mac,
the other Fardale men began to work, and Merry’s judgment was soon
vindicated by the fans, except in the case of Villum Kess.
The Dutch lad seemed awkward. He committed no glaring errors, but it
seemed to the crowd that any one would have been better at second than
he. However, Fardale was now committed, and every rooter hoped for the
best as the Fardale yell began to ring out: “Ha, ha, ha! ’Rah, ’rah,
’rah! Rigger-boom! Zigger-boom! All hail--Fardale! Fardale! Fardale!”
The Clipper sympathizers had no regular yell, but they made good
with a thunder of feet stamping, and a roar of shouts and yells. For
an instant these fell silent while the two umpires announced the
batteries, then they rose again into a wild storm as the Fardale nine
trotted out and took the field.
“Play ball!” cried the strike umpire, adjusting his mask. Ironton
stepped out.
The game was on.