“And such a team got away with Frank Merriwell’s nine?” he said. “I don’t understand it.”
The cigar clerk was touched.
“You don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Elkton has a team that can make any of ’em hustle. You ought to see our pitcher. He’s from Wisconsin. His name is Wolfers. Mark what I’m telling you, he’ll be in one of the big leagues within two years. I think he’s a better man than Cy Young or Chesbro, or any of them fellows. He uses the spit ball, and he can put it just where he wants to, which is better than some of the pitchers can do.”
At this moment Bob Wolfers, accompanied by Jack Lawrence and Seymour Whittaker, a local baseball enthusiast and a man of wealth, entered the hotel.
“Oh, your pitcher may be a good man,” said Raybold, taking his cigar from his mouth and examining it critically: “but you ought to know that Frank Merriwell is, beyond doubt, the cleverest slab artist not gobbled up by one of the two big leagues. The Boston Americans and the New York Nationals both want him.”
“Is that straight, mister?” asked Wolfers, butting in and winking at the cigar clerk.
“Yes, that’s straight.”
“I suppose you know it for a fact?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Well, that fellow wouldn’t last twenty seconds on either the Bostons or the New Yorks. He’s the greatest shine for a pitcher that I ever saw.”