The silent figure around the corner drew back, with a little smile playing about his clean-cut mouth. Randall was a handsome, dark-eyed, fiery-tempered Southerner, who could play ball like a fiend, when he wanted to.
He was full of pride, and his greatest fault was his temper. Despite this, however, he was a prime favorite. At Lee Chester’s next words his face flushed darkly, and his smile changed to a quick scowl.
“Randall? Nonsense, Hunt! He’s a dandy fellow, and is a peach of a pitcher, but he’s not in Chip’s class.”
“Naturally not, since Merry is a chip of the old block,” said Garding, with a chuckle. His face instantly became serious, however.
“You’re wrong, Chesty,” he went on. “Bob Randall is popular.”
“So’s Chip, according to my notion.”
“Sure. There’ll prob’ly be an election right after the game on Monday. But Chip, Clancy, and Billy Mac are over at Carsonville, and who’ll look after their interests? You can bet that Chip will not try to get the captaincy, but he ought to.”
“I s’pose there will be some campaigning done,” admitted Chester. “But I don’t think Randall has much show. He’s too hot-headed to work as captain. Now, look at Chip Merriwell. Did you ever see him rattled? Not enough to notice it. He can pitch rings around Bob Randall, too. Wait till Monday, and you’ll see.”
“Well, you wait yourself. Randall doesn’t think a heap of Chip, I guess——”
“You’re wrong there, Garding.”