Colonel Carson himself was in evidence in the grand stand, laying as many bets as he could find Fardale takers. Most of these latter were out-of-town men, for there were few among the cadets themselves who cared to do any gambling. The colonel knew nothing of his son, it appeared, and had not seen him that day. “I’ve heard a lot about this Merriwell guy,” stated a Fardale fan to the world at large. “Has he got anything?” “Has he!” A fat man below him turned around, brandishing a fan in one hand and a pop bottle in the other. “Say, ever see the old Frank Merriwell pitch?” “Uh-huh, once.” “Well, the kid is a chip of the old block, take it from me!” “I guess I’ll not let Colonel Carson slide past me, then,” and the Fardale rooter took out his pocketbook. Finally a tremendous burst of cheering started in the bleachers and gradually spread around the field. The two teams had arrived for practice work! Every head was craned to look, and a howl of expectation rose as the Clippers took the field first. The howl rose to a roar of applause as the ball began to whip around. The new Clipper infield was a wonder! Their precision was magnificent, and the way they put the sphere to the bases made Fardale gasp. With Coach Trayne, Merry stood watching them work. Off to one side, Green was limbering up with his catcher, Olcott. He was a tall, slender, wiry man with a very brown face and terrific speed to his practice ball. “Chip, that fellow is a tartar!” murmured the coach. “Watch how easily he puts those sizzlers down, eh? He moves as if every muscle was run by clockwork!” “He certainly is a beautiful pitcher,” Frank said admiringly. “And look there--see that fellow Craven pick up that hot one! Ironton and Murray are the only infielders left from their old team, but I guess Colonel Carson knew his business!” Wild cheers went up as Craven picked a sizzler from the ground, darted to his base, and sent the ball across to third like a bullet. Just then a bat boy touched Merry’s arm. “A man in one of the boxes wants to speak to you, Chip.” Frank followed his guide back to the grand stand. A keen-eyed man with a long black cigar in his mouth was standing by the netting, and beckoned. “You wanted me?” “Yes. Say, Merriwell, do you know that fellow Green--the Clippers’ pitcher?” “Why, no,” returned Chip, smiling. “He looks mighty good, though.” “Well, I’m a traveling man, but I’m rooting for Fardale. Did you ever hear of Southpaw Diggs?” “Often. He’s one of the best pitchers in the country, if he’d let booze alone. What’s on your mind?” “That fellow Green is a dead ringer for Diggs, Merriwell! He ain’t got Diggs’ big rainbow mustache, but I’ve seen Diggs work too often not to recognize that wind-up.” Frank looked up at the man, startled. “Impossible, my friend! The Clippers are all amateurs----” “Oh, rats! I know too much about the game to swallow that talk, Merriwell, especially when Colonel Carson talks it.”