“How so?”
“’Cause whoever pitches that game gets ’lected captain o’ the Fardale team. I don’t understand it all, but that’s how she lays. If Randall pitches, Merriwell loses out all around, d’you see?”
“And if he pitched, then he’d get the ’lection?”
“That’s it, Bully.”
The son grimaced, as he knotted a yellow-purple necktie about his neck.
“Then he can pitch, fer all o’ me. By thunder, I know when I got enough, pop. If you can figger out any way——”
“Hold on, son, hold on!” and Colonel Carson tugged at his goatee, smiling craftily. “You ain’t never seen the old man lose out very long, have you? He ain’t a-goin’ to this time, either. Merriwell ain’t goin’ to pitch that game, see?”
“How you goin’ to keep him out?”
“That depends. Where is he now?”
“Gettin’ the constable to arrest me, mebbe,” returned Bully easily. “I lost my hat, and he slung it away after seein’ whose it was. Ironton is watchin’ to see where he goes fer the night.”