Now, of course, there was a manager for the team, although he was a mere figurehead. It was known throughout the college that Merriwell was the real manager, as well as the captain, and he could run things to suit himself. But the ostensible manager had been given a hint from the board of directors, and he braced up to approach Frank. His name was Filkins, and he could put on a great front.
“Mr. Merriwell,” he observed pompously. “I wish to speak with you.”
Frank nodded, and followed Filkins aside.
“It’s a serious matter,” Filkins began. “Of course we rely on your judgment, Merriwell, but even the best of us sometimes make—er—ah—breaks, you understand. Of course, I’m not casting any—er—reflection on—on—anything you may have seen fit to do; but it is the universal opinion that—ah—something must be done. I don’t like to—to—ah——”
“Come to the point, Mr. Filkins,” urged Frank. “Time is precious. What do you wish to say?”
He knew well enough what the fellow was driving at, but Merry had no intention of helping him out. Somehow Filkins’ air of pomposity vanished.
“I’m not doing this on my own accord,” he declared. “But I’ve been compelled to do it. You understand? As I said, we’re well pleased with your judgment generally; but there is one matter that is not satisfactory. We do not think center field is properly filled.”
“Is that it?” said Frank grimly. “Well what about it?”
“I would suggest a change.”