“What’s that?” exclaimed the man behind the counter disdainfully. “I reckon you don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve got a team right here in this town that can skin anything outside the two big leagues. Our players are professionals and crackajacks. This Merriwell bunch looks like a lot of boys. They’re amateurs, and Cartersville will bury them up this afternoon.”
“Oh, come, come!” smiled Doom. “It’s plain you are the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t care how many professionals you have, Merriwell will defeat you. I’ll bet on it.”
“How much will you bet?” was the hot inquiry.
“Anything from ten dollars to ten thousand.”
“That’s a bluff.”
“Is it? I’ll back it up.”
“Of course it is a bluff,” said another voice, as Carey Cameron, puffing at a cigarette, came sauntering up. “The cocksure gentleman never saw ten thousand dollars.”
Doom turned with his freshly lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, surveying Cameron critically.
“Who are you?” he inquired. “Why are you so sudden to chip into this?”
“I’m the manager of the Cartersville baseball team, and my name is Cameron. I happened to hear you making a lot of bluff betting talk, which I am positive you can’t back up.”