“Wow? Mebbe that’ll show him what Dan McCarthy can do!” he yelled, as the ball zipped.
When he discovered that he had been victimized, he turned on Chub.
“You blamed little yapper!” he said. “You’d be a whole lot s’prised to find that he was a big-league scout, wouldn’t you?”
“Yah!” piped Chub jubilantly. “L-l-line her out again, Dan!”
The stranger hung around for an hour, speaking to no one, but watching the practice intently. Finally he drifted off in the direction of town.
Once back in the town, he began inquiries as to Colonel Carson’s whereabouts. That individual was not hard to find. In fact, he was on a still hunt for the stranger, and finally encountered him near the bank.
“Well, Mr. Smith, how’d the two teams strike you?”
“The Clippers didn’t look up to much, to my mind,” said the stranger easily. “Of course, I may be mistaken, but Merriwell’s crowd seemed to be pretty good. Why, one of those fellows lammed the ball a mile, Carson!”
“Yes,” and Colonel Carson fingered his goatee, “them fellers can hit, Smith. Placed any bets yet?”
“Well, no,” replied the stranger. “I rather thought I might induce you to put up a little money.”