To his deep satisfaction, Harrison found himself pocketing more money than he had dreamed of looking upon while representing Menocket. He was able to make a good thing, financially, while paying his players salaries which satisfied them.
In the matter of winning games the Outlaws seemed almost invincible. It is true that they dropped a game occasionally, but even then it was suspected that this came about through design rather than necessity. Through the Middle West, the Southwest, and along the Pacific Coast they toured triumphantly, boosted not only by Harrison’s clever advertising, but by sporting writers everywhere.
Several times, through the efforts of minor league managers to gobble up certain men desired from the Outlaws, Harrison found it necessary to fight in order to hold his team together. He sought to impress upon the men the belief that by sticking to him they would eventually do far better than by accepting the bait of the minor league magnets. He was continually hinting of a “plum” that was coming to them.
Furthermore, he satisfied them that, one and all, they were Big League timber, and that he possessed the ability to put them back into the company where they belonged.
While Harrison stood there, snarling and glaring at the back of the departing manager, he was approached by Dick Merriwell, who was stopping at the hotel, in Colorado Springs, which was the first stop, after Denver.
“I beg your pardon,” said Dick.
“Yah!” rasped the manager of the Outlaws, turning fiercely.
The other smiled upon him with serene good nature.
“I chanced to overhear a little of your conversation with Charlie Loring,” said he. “It was quite without intent upon my part, I assure you; you were both speaking somewhat loudly. As your subject was baseball, I couldn’t help feeling some interest, for I’m a baseball enthusiast.”
“Yah!” repeated Harrison. “Perhaps you’re one of Loring’s cubs?”