eral were of a nature to arouse the anger of any inhabitant of the town at the foot of the mountains.
At last the cars from Rockland came, three of them being required to handle the crowd. They piled on and went out of Camden blowing horns, ringing bells, beating tin pans and howling derision.
Frank Merriwell stood on the corner near the opera house and heard all this. He could feel the blood within him getting warmer and warmer. He considered Moslof a fine fellow and he admired Woods. His sympathy was with Camden.
Moslof and Woods came down the street together and paused near Frank. Woods was making no excuses.
"They hit me out, that's all," he said. "I want to pitch against them again when this arm is rested."
Frank stepped forward.
"When do you play Rockland again, Moslof?" he asked.
"To-morrow," was the answer. "The schedule brings these two games together."
"Who will pitch?"
"I don't know. Woods can't, Williamson is not in shape, I am afraid to put Slatridge in, and Bascomb never was any good against Rockland, although he is a good man against any other team."