CHAPTER XXI.
DICK MERRIWELL’S FIST.
When they came to sign the agreement Harrison was not a little surprised to note that instead of “Richard Dick” the name the young man wrote at the foot of the document was Richard Merriwell.
“Hey?” cried the manager of the Outlaws, gazing at that signature. “What’s this? I thought you said your name was Dick.”
“And so it is,” was the smiling answer; “Dick Merriwell. While we were talking I told you that Richard Dick would serve for the time being.”
“Merriwell? Merriwell? I’ve heard of a fellow by that name—Frank Merriwell.”
“My brother.”
“That so? He was a great college pitcher. He was one of the college twirlers the Big Leagues really scrambled for—and couldn’t get.”
“My brother always had a decided disinclination to play professional baseball. For him, like myself, it was a highly enjoyable sport; but to take it up professionally went against the grain.”
“Oh, yes,” grinned Harrison, “I understand about that. He didn’t have to do it. If he had been poor, maybe he’d looked at it differently; but he was loaded with the needful, and, therefore, he could afford to pose.”