“Oh, I don’t suppose you ever did such a thing in your life?” sneered Morley.
Merry flushed.
“It makes no difference what I have done.”
“But you can’t deny that you have played for purses.”
“Never without protest—never unless practically forced to do so. In this case, I refuse to be forced. The gate-money should be sufficient to pay well the winning team.”
“My team is run under heavy expense, and there is no assurance that your aggregation of amateurs will prove a drawing card.”
Hodge was at Frank’s elbow, scowling like a thundercloud, his heart filled with hot anger over the insolent words of the man. Bart’s fighting blood was being stirred, and he longed to give Mr. David Morley just what he deserved.
“Then you have the privilege of declining to meet us,” said Frank. “That will settle the whole matter in short order.”
“He knows we’ll draw!” exclaimed Hodge. “Your name alone, Merriwell, will turn out a crowd.”
“I think you are mistaken,” said the manager of the Reds. “In the East, Frank Merriwell may be regarded as something of a wonder, but out here he does not count. We have plenty of better men.”