“We’re gone!” groaned one man despairingly. “With Kess on second and O’Day out in the field, it’s ‘good night’ for us!”
“Merriwell must be crazy,” exclaimed another. “That blundering Dutchman can’t hit beans! And Lowe and Harker switched around, and a substitute in left field! I wish Ted Crockett had remained captain, by thunder!”
“Oh, pickles!” scoffed a plebe derisively. “Who left the door open for you to get in? You wait and see what happens to those Clippers!”
None the less, Fardale was anxious. So were the Clipper sympathizers. When the time for practice drew near, the crowd was literally on its toes, watching for the first sight of the players. Both teams were an unknown quantity, in their present shape, and the only comfort remaining to Fardale was that Merriwell was slated to pitch. The umpires were two Yale men, specially obtained for the occasion.
Frank was forced to dismiss his worry over Bob Randall, as the time for work drew near. Nothing had been seen of Bully Carson, and Randall was due to witness the game from the principal’s box—partly as a guest, partly under surveillance. The village constable was somewhere about the field, hunting for Carson.
Colonel Carson himself was in evidence in the grand stand, laying as many bets as he could find Fardale takers. Most of these latter were out-of-town men, for there were few among the cadets themselves who cared to do any gambling. The colonel knew nothing of his son, it appeared, and had not seen him that day.
“I’ve heard a lot about this Merriwell guy,” stated a Fardale fan to the world at large. “Has he got anything?”
“Has he!” A fat man below him turned around, brandishing a fan in one hand and a pop bottle in the other. “Say, ever see the old Frank Merriwell pitch?”
“Uh-huh, once.”
“Well, the kid is a chip of the old block, take it from me!”