“I suppose Colonel Carson intends to do some betting?” Bob queried keenly.
“Oh, a little, mebbe. Not much. Now see here, Bob: This guy Merriwell ain’t used you right, to my notion. He’s played dirty against you, and he’s got all Fardale persuaded that he’s a little tin god on wheels, with a bell to his neck. There ain’t no use tryin’ to hit back at him fair and square. We got to use his own methods.”
Bully worked himself into a virtuous glow. He almost believed his own words.
“You tried ’em last Sunday,” retorted Bob gloomily. “They didn’t work.”
“We didn’t know just how slick he was, Bob. He could ’a’ got away from us sooner, only he wanted to come in at the last minute for a grand-stand play. He thinks that if he pitches against the Clippers he’s sure to win. But we’d sooner have you pitch, ’cause you ain’t crooked. We want to play a clean game; get me?”
Randall nodded. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he did not even attempt to penetrate Bully’s sudden show of conscious virtue.
“That’s right, Carson. And I’d sure like to hand him one hot one before I leave school!”
“You’d hand it to him if you pitched against the Clippers, Bob. I’ll pass it to you on the quiet that we don’t know much about our new pitcher, and he might pan out wrong. If he does, you stand a chance o’ winning the game. Of course, I want to see the Clippers win, but if you could beat us square, I’d be satisfied. It’d make this Merriwell kid squirm ten ways from election.”
Randall could readily understand that, according to his notions of Merry’s character.
“Yes,” he assented, growing excited as the golden vision arose before him. “Yes, I reckon yo’ ce’tainly have it doped out. If that could come about, he’d sho’ learn a bitteh lesson, the low-down scoundrel!”