“No. There’s been a flood down the valley, and them Greenville scrubs wired that they wouldn’t be up. They’re all helpin’ flood sufferers. Think o’ lettin’ a little thing like that interfere with our schedule!” Bully Carson grunted sarcastically. It was evident that he had little use for flood sufferers. “Come on, Bully, let’s get a little practice right here,” suggested one of the half dozen fellows standing around in baseball uniforms. “Bunting practice.” “Might’s well, while we’re waiting, I suppose,” assented Carson. They were waiting by the schoolhouse, lolling about the village green, and waiting for the remainder of the Clippers to show up for the morning work-out. Off at one side stood a group of young fellows who were watching proceedings with scowling faces. Bully Carson and “Squint” Fletcher, who covered home plate for the Clippers, stepped out and began to plunk a ball back and forth. Hendrix, the shortstop, seized a bat and began to bunt. At this juncture; Frank Merriwell, junior, accompanied by Billy Mac, strolled up. They had been having a work-out of their own down by the river, and Billy carried his catcher’s mitt. They paused not far from the group of discontented-looking chaps, who nodded to Billy. Merriwell was introduced, and all watched the Clippers at work. It was the morning after Colonel Carson’s ultimatum had been delivered. From the comments which were passed, Chip decided that the young fellows of Carsonville cherished a distinct feeling of dislike for the colonel’s son, who was captain of the Clippers. “Bully gives me a pain,” declared one of the group, Bud Bradley. He proceeded to narrate Carson’s comment on the action of the Greenville club. “That doesn’t sound extra well,” commented Merry. “It’d be more to the point if the Clippers would pile down to Greenville and help out the flood sufferers.” “No chance of that,” exclaimed Dan McCarthy, a lanky village youth. “Nobody ever heard o’ Bully Carson helpin’ any one, nor his dad neither.” “Howdy, fel-l-lers,” piped Chub Newton, as he joined the group. “Any one want to order groceries this morning? I hear there’s no game Saturday.” “Open date,” returned Billy. “Too late now to rearrange things, too.” “Look at that second baseman drop them!” growled Jim Spaulding. “And talkin’ about bushers, watch that feller who tries to play first,” added McCarthy. “Yah!” jeered Chub Newton, prodding Bud Bradley in the ribs and dancing away. “You fel-l-lers are jeal-l-lous, that’s what! You’re sore because you aren’t inside of those uniforms.” “And who wouldn’t be sore?” said Bradley hotly. “When that fellow Carson blacklists his own townfolks, and drags in city players, it’s enough to make any one hot!” “’Tisn’t as if we wasn’t good ball players, either,” added McCarthy. “Bully knows he couldn’t show off around us, that’s all. He wants to be captain, and he’d stand a fine chance of us electin’ him!”