“Oh, by the way, Merriwell,” said Coach Trayne, stopping him, “who are you working out to fill Crockett’s place?” “Well, Mr. Trayne, my choice happens to be holding down second right now,” and Frank looked across the diamond with a twinkle. “What do you think of him?” The party turned. Standing awkwardly on second and waiting for a grounder from the batter was Villum Kess. He stood full on the sack itself, as though firmly determined not to let it get away from him. A burst of laughter went up, though Trayne kept silent. “Him!” cried Clancy derisively. “He’s done nothing but right field up to now, Chip! Why, he’ll fall all over the infield!” “He’s a joke,” said Billy Mac. “Oh, my eye! Look at that!” Clancy gasped. As the batter sent a twisting grounder at the place Kess should have been standing, the German youth appeared to lose his balance and topple from the bag. He stumbled over his own foot, tried to recover in vain, and went headlong to the ground in front of the ball. By some weird chance it seemed to hit his glove, and as he sat up he grinned and tossed it to first. “Dot vos der pusiness!” he squawked, as every one roared with laughter. “Yaw! Didn’t you toldt me so? You pet!” “Talk about luck!” gasped Clancy. “Surely you’re not in earnest, Chip?” “I am,” said Merry. “Maybe it’s luck, but I’ve noticed that Villum always makes the luck break his way, Clan. Get out to first and see if you can make him miss your pegs. If you can, I’ll reverse my decision.” Clancy trotted off with a whoop, and Coach Trayne smiled. “I wish you were going to stay at Fardale as captain, Chip! You’d either smash up the team or else it would be a wonder to behold!” “Thanks for them kind words,” said Frank, with a chuckle, moving away. “You can announce that game for Saturday, Mr. Trayne!” And he departed for Colonel Gunn’s office, in order to telephone his wire to the village. CHAPTER XXVIII. LAYING THE WIRES. It was commonly reported around Carsonville that the estimable Colonel Carson could tug more Satanic inspiration out of his yellow-gray goatee than Satan himself. At the present moment he seemed to be highly satisfied with himself. He was sitting in his study at Carsonville, and with him was his son. Bully Carson’s face was decorated with a large black eye, over which he wore an eye patch. He was clad in a loud checked suit, flaming-red necktie, and green waistcoat. From one corner of his mouth drooped a negligent cigarette. His face looked pasty and unwholesome, and reflected the same hard, unscrupulous look that shone in his father’s eyes. “Son, here’s where we even up with them Merriwells for good and all.” Colonel Carson tugged at his goatee again, and glanced down at Merry’s telegram of acceptance. He used the Clippers as a means to win money by gambling. And when he did gamble, it was usually a sure thing. This he proceeded to prove in his next words.