Morrison’s jaw dropped.
“Who told you?” he gasped in astonishment.
“Why, the old man. Who else do you s’pose would?”
“The old man!” Morrison exclaimed in bewilderment. “Fairchilds, you mean? How the deuce did he find out?”
“Give it up. Told us to-night when he come up for practice.”
Morrison was silent for a moment.
“You take it pretty calmly,” he said presently, a morose scowl on his face.
“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded McDonough. “The old man said he was a crackajack, but I guess he won’t get much on yours truly.”
Morrison threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.
“Say, you’re pretty cocky, Bill, aren’t you?” he inquired. “I suppose you think there isn’t a man living that can strike you out. Did you know that this Merriwell is the best amateur pitcher and all-around baseball player in the country. The managers of the big-league teams have had their eyes on him ever since he entered Yale. He could get any price he wanted this minute, if he’d go into professional ball. Why, you’ll be easy fruit. He’ll make pie of you and your whole team. There won’t be any pieces left to pick up. He’ll make a holy show of you to-morrow unless——”