“That’s a mighty queer coincidence,” reflected Merry, worried. “Hostetter and Bully were friends, according to Colonel Gunn. Could it be possible that Carson did steal that money? But where is he now?”
That was a mystery. Evidently Bully had failed to meet the man with whom he was to bet, yet he had left Randall’s room for that express purpose.
“I believe he can explain that theft,” muttered Frank. “And I’ll make it my business to find him after the game.”
Returning to Coach Trayne, he repeated the information given him by the traveling man, and Trayne watched Green closely.
“He does resemble Diggs in general outline,” admitted the coach. “And his wind-up and delivery are exactly similar. Chip, I’ve a good notion to stop this game now!”
“You’ve no proof, Mr. Trayne. The Clippers are vouched for as amateurs by their owner, and even if he has put in a few ringers, that can’t hurt our standing, if we play them. And it would be a bad business to start something we can’t finish.”
Trayne saw the justice of this argument, and Merry caught up his glove, as the bell rang, and ran out. While he was warming up with Billy Mac, the other Fardale men began to work, and Merry’s judgment was soon vindicated by the fans, except in the case of Villum Kess.
The Dutch lad seemed awkward. He committed no glaring errors, but it seemed to the crowd that any one would have been better at second than he. However, Fardale was now committed, and every rooter hoped for the best as the Fardale yell began to ring out: “Ha, ha, ha! ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! Rigger-boom! Zigger-boom! All hail—Fardale! Fardale! Fardale!”
The Clipper sympathizers had no regular yell, but they made good with a thunder of feet stamping, and a roar of shouts and yells. For an instant these fell silent while the two umpires announced the batteries, then they rose again into a wild storm as the Fardale nine trotted out and took the field.
“Play ball!” cried the strike umpire, adjusting his mask. Ironton stepped out.