Billy Mac grunted.
“But what’s the sense in playing him, Chip? We ought to have that shyster put in jail for kidnaping you, and we could do it, and his son, too. Everybody knows his crowd is crooked and——”
“So much the more glory in beating them squarely,” said Frank. “What do you think about it, Mr. Trayne?”
“It looks all right to me,” returned the coach. “I’d say to take the game, and then lick the stuffing out of those fellows. We’re playing the Clippers, you know, not Colonel Carson himself. They could certainty raise a holler if we refused, for they’re the crack team of the Amateur League. We’ve no good reason for turning them down, except on the score of crookedness, which we can’t raise against the team as a whole. Carson’s private dirty work doesn’t blanket his whole team, remember.”
“That’s true,” said Clancy, “but the team is a bad lot, too. They tried to beat up Chip, Billy, and me down at Carsonville, after our pick-ups licked them. But you suit yourself, Merry. I’ll stand back of you.”
“Same here, Chip,” said Billy. “I’d just as soon help to do the bunch up brown, anyhow.”
“All right, then,” said Frank. “I see the practice game is over, so I’ll trot across to the office and phone down a telegram of acceptance.”
“Oh, by the way, Merriwell,” said Coach Trayne, stopping him, “who are you working out to fill Crockett’s place?”
“Well, Mr. Trayne, my choice happens to be holding down second right now,” and Frank looked across the diamond with a twinkle. “What do you think of him?”
The party turned. Standing awkwardly on second and waiting for a grounder from the batter was Villum Kess. He stood full on the sack itself, as though firmly determined not to let it get away from him. A burst of laughter went up, though Trayne kept silent.