Brad’s left hand was lowered at his side, and he quivered a little as his fingers closed into a hard, bony fist. Although the man was not aware of it, in that moment he was in danger of being smitten by that fist. “I reckon I understand what you mean, Mr. Fernald,” said the Texan. “You’re proposing to me that I do something to give Rockford the game?” “There’s no need to put it thus plainly in words,” said the manager. “You are sharp enough to understand. Here is your opportunity to make a big thing. In the most natural manner you can have a passed ball at a critical point in the game. You can make bad throws to head off men stealing bases. Such things are done by the best catchers in the business. They have their yellow days. No need to excite suspicion by it. Perhaps it might not even be necessary to do anything of the sort. If Rockford had a good lead, you could play your best game and still be sure you would get the boodle when the game was over. What do you say, Buckhart? Can I depend on you?” “See here, Mr. Fernald,” said the sturdy Texan, “I don’t like to talk this thing over any more here. There are some people round who have looked at us right sharp already. We’re attracting attention. If you will come up to room thirty-seven within ten minutes I’ll give you an answer. I want a little time to think it over. I’ll be waiting for you in that room. If you will notice, Whitney, the clerk, is watching us now. I opine I’ll move.” Without waiting for Fernald to say whether he would come to room 37 or not, Brad rose and sauntered away. As the Texan walked away he looked around the place searchingly. A shade of disappointment seemed to settle on his face. “Where are the boys?” he muttered. “Some of them ought to be hanging round here.” For a moment he stepped out in front of the hotel. Chip Jolliby was standing out there with his hands in his pockets, watching the people on the street. Instantly Buckhart seized Jolliby by the arm and began speaking to him earnestly, in a low tone. “Great juj-juj-juj-jingoes!” gasped the tall boy, as he listened. “Here’s the key to the door,” said Brad, thrusting a key into Jolliby’s hand. “Get a move on you. Must be plenty of witnesses.” Then the Western youth turned back into the hotel and ascended the stairs, whistling carelessly. Barely had Buckhart disappeared when Jolliby observed a man passing on the street. With a spring Chip grasped this man’s elbow. “Hold on a mum-mum-mum-minute, Mr. Blackington,” stuttered the tall lad. “I wish to sus-sus-see you on important bub-business.” “What’s that?” asked Uriah Blackington, the former manager of the Rockford team. “Why, hello, Jolliby! You look excited. Losing that game to-day at Seaslope must have disturbed you somewhat.” “You’re sus-sus-sus-still president of the Trolley League, aren’t you?” asked Chip. “I believe I am,” nodded the Rockford man. “I wanted to resign, but they kept me in it.”