Randall flushed and sat up. He looked hard at his uncle, but the latter was smiling. Bob sank back, with an uncertain laugh.
“I pretty nearly thought you were in earnest, uncle! Of course, I know you’d never think of such a thing, though. No, if I can win that game I’m pretty sure to get the election that will follow it.”
The colonel tugged at his goatee once more. He seemed to get all kinds of inspiring thoughts from that patch of gray hair on his chin. Just at present his thoughts were anything but inspiring, however.
“I’ve got him placed,” he was reflecting inwardly. “He thinks that Franklin feller is no good. Now, if I can keep Merriwell out and let Bob pitch, I can go ahead and place some bets on Franklin. I hate to see Bob get the spots licked off him, but business is business.”
Aloud, however, he expressed himself quite in an opposite fashion.
“Well, nephew,” he said pleasantly, “I’d like to see ye get a fair chance. It don’t seem to me like that feller Merriwell gives any one else a show, does he?”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were here at Fardale!”
“I don’t need to be here to tell that. If you go on the mound Monday afternoon, you’re pretty sure to win, eh?”
“Dead certain,” said Randall. “We’ll have a bang-up team, and we’ll hand it to Franklin pretty hot, uncle.”
“Glad to hear it, nephew, glad to hear it. I’ll see to it that Merriwell does not do ye out o’ your chance.”