“I don’t suppose there’s any way to fuf-fuf-fuf-force old Ham out, is there?” asked Chip, who was quite exultant over what had taken place. “It’s doubtful if he can be forced out,” said Blackington. “He has everything in his hands up there. He’s the sole backer of the team, and thus far it has cost him a fat little sum of money.” For a short time they talked over Fernald’s trickery; but finally Blackington departed, having stated his intention of at once calling together the directors of the Rockford team in order that a new manager might be appointed. Although Tom Fernald had seemed to recover his nerve ere leaving room 37, he was quivering with rage as he descended the stairs. He hurried through the office and made his way directly to the small barroom in the basement of the Corndike. Several persons were patronizing the bar, while in the corner sat a ragged young man, who seemed to be sleeping off the effects of too much drink. This chap had not purchased a drink since entering the place, but had slipped in quietly and apparently had fallen asleep on the chair almost as soon as he sat down. “Whisky,” growled Fernald, as he found a place at the bar. “Hello!” exclaimed a man, whose elbow he happened to jostle. “Is it you, Tom? What’s the matter? Sore because we took a fall out of you to-day?” To Fernald’s surprise he recognized Benton Hammerswell, the Maplewood manager. “What are you doing down here, Hammerswell?” he inquired. “Oh, I just run down to see how the baseball fans were feeling. Have been looking for you. Inquired at the office. They said you were around a short time ago, but I couldn’t discover a sign of you. I thought it possible you might drift in here some time this evening. Taking whisky, are you? That’s hardly hot-weather drink, and it’s hot enough to-night.” “Yes, it’s hot enough,” nodded Fernald. “Too thundering hot! I’ve been given quite a sweat to-night.” Again Hammerswell eyed his companion closely. “Dropping that game to us must have made you sore,” he said, with a pantherish grin. “Never mind that, old boy. We’ll take a fall out of Seaslope to-morrow. It’s up to you to down Fairhaven and land the islanders at the bottom. That’s where they belong. After we get Seaslope into third place and Fairhaven into fourth, we’ll fight it out between us for the pennant. I’ve got the team to win games now. There’s only one trouble with my bunch: Arlington is sore. I was compelled to promise that he should remain as captain of the team, but it wouldn’t work.