“That’s right,” Bully encouraged him, playing his cards cunningly. “He’s done you dirt, Bob, for a fact. You ought to get even with him.”
“What chance have I?” Randall asked bitterly. “I’m all alone here.”
“Oh, I dunno about that. Pop and me, we figure to stand by our kin, Bob. Didn’t he try to help you by keepin’ Merriwell out o’ that Franklin game?”
Randall nodded, forcing himself into a strained calmness.
“Yes, and I want you to thank him for me, old man. It was no use, though.”
“Virtue is its own reward,” quoted Bully. “We done our best. Now, pop would like to see you pitch against the Clippers on Saturday, Bob. O’ course, we mean to beat you, but I ain’t goin’ to be in the game, and pop would like to——”
“No chance,” broke in Randall, with renewed bitterness. Then he glanced up, half suspiciously. “Why is your father so interested?”
“Because he likes you, Bob.”
Bully was too wise to persuade Randall along crooked lines. He sneered at his cousin, in his own mind, for being a “goody-goody” fellow.
“I’d like to even up with Merriwell, Bob,” he went on cautiously. “We’d like to have you pitch Saturday ’cause you’re a better pitcher than Merriwell. We’ve got a new pitcher for the Clippers, and if we beat Fardale at its best, there’ll be all the more glory in it.”