Frank Merriwell's Son; Or, A Chip Off the Old Block

by Burt L. Standish

"Evidently you're out for the dust," said Frank.

"It takes money to run a team."

"Your team is composed of professionals, isn't it?"

"They're all salaried players."

"Just a bit out of our class. We're straight amateurs."

Besides the chauffeur, a rather sad-faced, somber-looking man was sitting in the car. This man now arose with a languid air and stepped out.

"I told you how it would be, Bearover," he said, with a slight drawl. "Merriwell has made his reputation by defeating second-class amateur teams. I didn't think he'd have the sand to play a nine like the Rovers."

"Who is this gentleman?" asked Frank.

"This is Casper Silence, the backer of the Rovers," explained Bearover. "Mr. Silence, Mr. Merriwell."

"How do," nodded Silence, as he adjusted his nose glasses and surveyed Frank from head to foot. "I presume the report that you're a back number may have some truth in it. A great many pitchers use themselves up in their prime. You look all right, but I take it your arm is gone."