“I’ll bet you——” began Bart hotly.
“Ah!” grunted Morley; “at least this member of your team is not adverse to making a little gamble, Mr. Merriwell.”
“That has nothing to do with him,” said Bart. “I’ll bet you ten dollars we get more hits off your pitcher than you do off Merriwell.”
“Ten dollars!” came scornfully from the manager of the Denver team. “Why don’t you make it ten cents? You’re putting the figures too high, young man.”
His words and manner were calculated to enrage Bart still more. Frank’s fingers fell with a firm grip on the arm of his friend, and he quietly said:
“I do not think we’ll do any betting over the game. If you wish to play us on the terms stated by me in my acceptance of your challenge, well and good. If you do not, we’ll let the matter drop.”
“It’s plain enough, Morley,” put in Elrich, “that the young chap knows which side his bread is buttered on.”
“He must think me a mark to put my salaried team against his collection of non-salaried kids,” sneered the baseball man, “unless there is something more than glory in it. It’s mighty little glory we’d get defeating his team.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Bart; “for you’d never defeat it.”
“Then we’ll have to call the game off,” said Frank, remaining perfectly calm.