“Glad to see ye, Bob, glad to see ye!” he cried effusively, as he pressed Bob into a chair. “Shall I send for a drink, eh?”
“I don’t drink, thanks,” said Randall. “You must have been in something of a rush to see me, uncle!”
“Well, might’s well admit that I was,” and Colonel Carson fingered his goatee thoughtfully and eyed his nephew. “I hear there’s to be a game here on Monday?”
“Yes,” and Randall’s face fell a trifle. “Franklin Academy is coming over. It ought to be a pretty good game. Will you stay over?”
“Mebbe. Hard to say, though, Bob. I know about them Franklin fellers. I been keepin’ tabs on their pitcher, thinkin’ to pick him up for the Clippers next year. I wanted to see ye about that game, Bob.”
“I’m glad some one wants to see me about it,” returned Randall bitterly. “I thought that I was going to pitch for Fardale. If I pitched and won, I’d probably get elected captain afterward—our captain leaves Monday night, you know.”
For some reason Colonel Carson looked perturbed.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“But it seems they’ve slated Merriwell to pitch. That means he’ll do me out of the captaincy. Everybody seems to knuckle down to these Merriwells over here. I can’t understand it!”
Colonel Carson looked relieved. He eyed his nephew keenly.