Ballard was about to reply, keeping up his end of the good-natured give and take, when he caught sight of some one hurrying toward the hotel along the sidewalk.
“Here’s our prize greaser, fellows!” he announced. “Wonder why he wasn’t around this morning?”
“Knows he didn’t need the practice, I guess,” answered Clancy. “If the rest of us can measure up to the standard set by him and Chip, Gold Hill won’t get a score across the pan.”
Frank got his eyes on the approaching backstop and watched him keenly and critically. The appearance of the lad was the first intimation he had had of the success of Darrel in carrying out the plot of the preceding evening. Now, as his eyes followed the catcher along the sidewalk and to the steps of the veranda, Merriwell experienced a thrill of profound satisfaction. Darrel, it was evident at a glance, had done his work wonderfully well.
Clancy and Ballard had not been taken into Merry’s confidence regarding that note which had arrived from Burke. Had they been with Frank at the time of its receipt, very likely they would have been given the whole disturbing message. Later, after his talk with Darrel, Frank was glad that his chums were in ignorance of Burke’s note. Now he was purposely keeping them in the dark.
“Howdy, Joe!” shouted Clancy. “You’re looking as husky as a keg of nails.”
The other’s swarthy face parted in a genial smile; but, true to his taciturn disposition, he had nothing to say in reply.
“Think we’re going to win, Joe?” queried Ballard, by way of testing the catcher’s confidence.
The other ducked his head emphatically.
“That’s right, Joe,” grinned Clancy, “I wouldn’t talk if it’s painful. If you’d only learn the deaf-and-dumb alphabet you could express yourself with your hands. I believe you’d be a fluent talker if you’d use your fingers.”