Merriwell moved off a few steps, watching the Clippers. The foregoing remarks had indicated clearly the position of things in the town. The group of disgruntled natives comprised several of those who, like Billy Mac, had been ousted from the Clippers by the imported amateurs. It was not hard to understand the reason for this, and Merry found himself in sympathy with the feeling. Knowing what he did of Bully Carson, he thought it highly probable that the captain of the Clippers doubted his ability to hold that position among the young fellows who had grown up with him. It was much easier to impress a crowd of chaps who worked for his father. They would be very likely to toady to him, and allow him to lead them. This was plainly the sort of thing that Carson loved. “Just the same,” remarked Chip to Billy, who stood beside him, “I don’t think your friends give him full credit, old man. He looks like a good pitcher, and those other chaps know their business.” “You’d show him up in two jerks, Chip,” declared Billy stoutly. Merry smiled, but did not reply. Carson had noted the arrival of the two friends, for more than once he looked blackly at the group, and passed remarks to his companions that drew their eyes also. They grinned at his words as if they formed great strokes of humor. Merry saw at once, however, that Carson knew his business. So did the rest of the Clippers. They had spread out over the green, and handled the bunts in fine shape, moving in perfect harmony and whipping over the ball with precision. Their captain and star pitcher might have a bad case of “swelled head,” but he showed that when it came to pitching, he was right there. As a group of girls passed on the other side of the street, he proceeded to cut loose. And Merry admitted to himself that Bully Carson was a pitcher. He had speed and good control, while his curves broke sharply. “Aw, cut out the comedy, cap,” growled his catcher, Squint Fletcher. “This ain’t no stage performance!” Carson scowled, but kept silent. Perhaps he had already discovered that his husky backstop had little desire to truckle to him. “Say, I got an idea!” chirruped Chub Newton shrilly. His voice lifted across to the green, and it caused Bully Carson to throw a vicious glance in the direction of the group. “Be careful of it,” grinned McCarthy. “You want to set on it an’ hold it gently by the ears, Chub. Don’t push it too hard.” “You l-l-listen to me,” went on the little fellow eagerly. “We could get a better team right here in town than those Cl-l-lippers! I’d l-l-like to form another one, a cl-l-lub of our own, and l-l-lambaste the spots out o’ them!” At this astounding proposal, the members of the group stared at each other. Carson, who must have heard the words, looked blacker than ever, but continued tossing the ball. “We couldn’t do it,” and Bud Bradley shook his head. “We’ve no money for grounds or uniforms or things, and most of us have to keep close to work.”