“Then I’ll tackle him.”
Nick Robinson, manager of the Philadelphia Athletic baseball-team, stepped quickly toward the Continental Hotel, in front of which Frank Merriwell was chatting with Jack Ready.
Merriwell and his friends had reached the Quaker City, and the entire party was stopping at the Continental.
As Robinson approached, he heard Jack Ready observing:
“It’s ever Sunday in this village, but whisper it not to the natives, unless you desire their everlasting and undying aversion. This is a perfectly lovely town to rest in, as nothing ever happens here to disturb the Sabbath calm of the place.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind kicking up a little excitement, to vary the monotony,” said Frank. “Now, if we could get into a game of baseball, we might be able to raise the dust.”
“That’s your cue, Nick,” muttered Jack Wilder, who had followed Robinson closely.
“I beg your pardon, young men,” spoke the baseball magnate; “are you Frank Merriwell?”
“That’s my name,” admitted Merry.
“And you are looking for a chance to play baseball?”