“Naturally not, since Merry is a chip of the old block,” said Garding, with a chuckle. His face instantly became serious, however. “You’re wrong, Chesty,” he went on. “Bob Randall is popular.” “So’s Chip, according to my notion.” “Sure. There’ll prob’ly be an election right after the game on Monday. But Chip, Clancy, and Billy Mac are over at Carsonville, and who’ll look after their interests? You can bet that Chip will not try to get the captaincy, but he ought to.” “I s’pose there will be some campaigning done,” admitted Chester. “But I don’t think Randall has much show. He’s too hot-headed to work as captain. Now, look at Chip Merriwell. Did you ever see him rattled? Not enough to notice it. He can pitch rings around Bob Randall, too. Wait till Monday, and you’ll see.” “Well, you wait yourself. Randall doesn’t think a heap of Chip, I guess----” “You’re wrong there, Garding.” The two plebes whirled in surprise as Bob Randall stepped out. With an effort the latter had wiped the traces of discontent from his dark, good-looking features. “You’re wrong,” he repeated easily. “I do think a good deal of Chip Merriwell, but since you seem to be discussing the subject frankly, I’ll say that he hasn’t any more chance of being elected captain than you have.” The two plebes were inclined to be angry at being overheard by Randall, of all persons, and much more so by his words. “Who gave you any license to butt in?” snapped Chester. “I happened to overhear what you said, that’s all. This is a public place, isn’t it?” “Generally considered so,” said Hunt Garding, with a grunt. Randall saw that he had hurt himself with these two plebes, and he quickly tried to regain lost ground. He was not the kind to do any disguising of his true sentiments, however, and stated his ground bluntly. “Look here, fellows, you seem to have the idea that I’m sore on Merriwell. I’m nothing of the kind. But there’s no use beating about the bush, after what’s been said, and I’m quite willing to admit that I want to be captain.” “We guessed it,” retorted Chester dryly. “Well, there’s no harm in that, is there?” Randall began to grow warm. “Can’t a fellow contest an elective office with Chip Merriwell?” “Some fellows could, maybe,” said Garding. “But if you want it straight, Bob, you’re not the fellow, in this case. He’s out of your class as a pitcher.” Randall’s dark eyes flashed, but he controlled himself. “I don’t acknowledge that. Who’ll go into the box for Fardale when Chip isn’t around? Tell me that.” “You will, because you’re the next best pitcher,” retorted Hunt. “You don’t need to get sore, Randall. I’m not decrying your ability when I say that you’re not the equal of Merriwell, because you’re a blamed good pitcher.” This only added fuel to the flame, however.