“Do you mean to tell me that Madison has things fixed with the umpire?” “Oh, Nort is too clever to fix things himself; but he has arranged it all right. If that old game is close toward the end, we will get the favors, and don’t you forget it!” “Merriwell’s signals?” “Why, he has had it fixed so every member of his team knows the kind of a ball he will pitch from his movements, or from the position he assumes. For instance, if he intends to throw that nasty combination ball of his, he gives a hitch at his trousers with both hands. When he is going to throw a drop, just before toeing the slab he stands for a moment with his feet both planted squarely together. When he lifts both hands above his head with the ball hidden in them, he is going to throw an outcurve. For an inshoot he settles on his right foot with a little jerking movement. And so on.” “How did Madison find out all those signals?” “That’s all right, my boy. Merriwell has a great many friends at Fardale Academy, but he likewise has an enemy or two. His enemies would dearly love to see him batted out of the box.” “One of his enemies gave away those signals, eh?” “That’s about the size of it.” Wiley settled back in his seat. The look on his face was one of deep disgust. “Is that the way they play baseball in these parts?” he muttered. “I have done a few questionable things myself in my abbreviated span of life, but a chap who will give away the signals of his own team ought to be presented with a nice, beautiful coat of tar and feathers.” “If they know those signs they will be able to beat Fardale to-day, won’t they?” anxiously whispered Abe. “Not on your tintype!” retorted the sailor. “Little Walter will lose no precious moments in putting Richard Merriwell wise on what’s doing.” The two lads in front of them continued their conversation. “Merriwell has always had enemies in this school, hasn’t he?” said Andy. “The same as any fellow who is unusually successful,” nodded Paul. “But he has one now who is more powerful and determined than his former enemies.” “Do you mean Chester Arlington?” “That’s his name.” “Arlington!” whispered Wiley. “Jot it down in your memory, Abe. He is the crooked duck we have to keep our optics on.” Ahead of them, at a little distance, a flush youngster was offering to give odds that Franklin would defeat Fardale that day. “You must have money to burn, Tommy,” laughed a friend. “I have,” declared the one called Tommy, as he flourished a small roll of bills. “I will bet two to one we beat Fardale for fair!” Immediately Wiley popped up. “Tom, I will provide you with a match, as long as you have legal tender to combusticate. I have a few germ-infested dollars which I am willing to risk on the result of this baseball game.” Tom seemed surprised. “Who are you?” he asked.