“Thought you was goin’ to stay over in Fardale? You must ’a’ done some tall hustling to get back on that late train! Did you see Randall?”
“Yes,” and Colonel Carson’s hard face darkened suddenly. “He’s no good the way we thought, Bully. He won’t throw the game.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“I didn’t get down to reasons—didn’t have to. He’s one o’ these here goody-goody fellows who believe in sport for sport’s sake, prob’ly. Anyway, he shied when I mentioned it, so I changed my plans around a bit.”
“You’re a wonder!” and Bully chuckled suddenly, in unholy admiration. “You got the slickest brain I ever did see! What’s the idea now?”
“Well,” and Colonel Carson sank wearily into a chair, “you know that I want to get down some bets on this Fardale-Franklin game, Bully. The only thing is how to know which team will win, d’you see?”
“Sure—even with this eye,” said Bully, with a grin. “Go on.”
“The Franklin pitcher is a wonder, but they don’t know it at Fardale. Randall thinks he can win easily, if he pitches. And he’ll pitch if Merriwell doesn’t show up, that’s certain. So if Randall pitches, it’s a dead sure thing that Franklin wins the game.”
“And if Merriwell pitches——”
“Then it’s not so sure. But listen here, Bully! Randall put me wise to something, something that made me alter my plans. We want to get back at Merriwell, at both of ’em, father and son. The father will get hit if Fardale loses, and the kid gets hit if he don’t pitch.”