“We met him at the Eagle Heights club the other day. It’s Wallace Grafter.”
“Sure enough!”
Grafter it was, and he was accompanied by Melvin McGann.
“How do you do, Mr. Merriwell!” cried Grafter cheerfully. “How are you, Mr. Hodge. We’ve had some trouble finding you.”
He shook hands heartily with them, and then said:
“Let me introduce Mr. McGann, manager of the Outcasts, a baseball team you may have heard about.”
“I should say we had heard about it!” exclaimed Frank. “Every one who takes the least interest in baseball must have heard of it by this time. So you are the manager of the Outcasts, Mr. McGann? Well, I congratulate you, for you certainly have a great team. I know good judges who declare your team is faster than anything in either of the two big leagues.”
“You are correct in pronouncing men of that opinion to be good judges,” said McGann. “We think we have the real thing. But, by the way, I have heard a little something about you and your team.”
“Which has interested him somewhat,” laughed Grafter. “He’s after you, Merriwell. He’s out for all the scalps he can gather.”