“Yes. Say, Merriwell, do you know that fellow Green—the Clippers’ pitcher?”
“Why, no,” returned Chip, smiling. “He looks mighty good, though.”
“Well, I’m a traveling man, but I’m rooting for Fardale. Did you ever hear of Southpaw Diggs?”
“Often. He’s one of the best pitchers in the country, if he’d let booze alone. What’s on your mind?”
“That fellow Green is a dead ringer for Diggs, Merriwell! He ain’t got Diggs’ big rainbow mustache, but I’ve seen Diggs work too often not to recognize that wind-up.”
Frank looked up at the man, startled.
“Impossible, my friend! The Clippers are all amateurs——”
“Oh, rats! I know too much about the game to swallow that talk, Merriwell, especially when Colonel Carson talks it.”
Merry looked troubled. He knew Carson was crooked as a corkscrew, but it was incredible that such a barefaced thing could be attempted.
“If you can swear that Diggs and Green are one and the same,” suggested Frank, frowning, “we could protest him.”