“Clerk in Peabody’s store, a fellow who hasn’t been here very long.”
“I’ll have to see him at once,” said Dick.
“I had a talk with him, you bet your boots!”
“Did you?”
“Sure thing, pardner. Said he knew Plover all right, and that the fellow couldn’t fool him. Said Plover was a chap who played baseball summers for money, raced for money, had been pulled up for some sort of crookedness in a running-race, had coached football-teams for money; in short, he made his living by just such things.”
“Well, he is a fine fellow for Franklin to run up against us!” exclaimed Dick. “Come, Brad, we’ll look up the manager of that team without delay.”
But the manager of the visiting team had not come to Fardale with his players, as they learned on hurrying to the hotel and making inquiries.
“He didn’t dare come!” muttered Buckhart in Dick’s ears. “He was afraid you’d get after him before the game. That’s why the onery galoot stayed away.”
Dick’s face wore a grim expression as he called for Captain Hickman. Hickman and two other Franklin fellows were found in a room. The captain of the team rose and held out his hand to Dick, crying:
“How are you, Merriwell, old man! Glad to see you again! Of course, we’ll have to trounce you this afternoon, but that is no reason why we shouldn’t be friends before the game—and afterward.”