“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold feet.”
“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on Frank Merriwell, and you think the whole of his bunch just as good as he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”
“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”
“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”
“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will show him up.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than off Merriwell.”
“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”
The bet was made.
There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.
Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy chap in a baseball suit.