“You’d better go easy on them fancy bets,” growled Bully. “That Merriwell kid is liable to connect with a streak of luck and jab out a homer, like he done against Franklin. You thought that was a sure thing, too.” Colonel Carson winced. Merriwell’s homer on that occasion had cost him more money than he liked to think about. “You may be right, Bully,” he said slowly. “But he would be helpless before Southpaw Diggs.” “He’s got the durndest luck you ever seen,” insisted Bully doggedly. Colonel Carson began to pull at his goatee once more, frowning at the floor. He knew that Merriwell’s success was not so much due to good luck as it was to pluck, skill, and honesty. He could not blind himself to this, but the knowledge only swerved his mind toward vindictiveness. “No,” he replied slowly, “it isn’t all luck, son. Just the same, I’ve no fears that he’ll be able to buck Diggs. There’s no harm in making sure against all chance, however. If we could get him out of the way, Randall would pitch. That’d cinch the whole thing.” “Huh!” sniffed Bully. “You said that once before----” “Shut up!” snapped his father violently. “I’ve had enough of your insolence! We’ll fix that kid this time, and no mistake.” “You will, you mean. Count me out right here, pop! I’ve had all I want o’ that kid, and if there’s any ‘fixing’ to do, I ain’t goin’ to mix in it. No, I’m cured, I am, and I reckon I’ll stay cured quite a spell.” He felt his injured eye tenderly. His father continued to pull at his goatee, and suddenly he nodded in decision and rose. Going to a cabinet that stood against the wall, he opened a small drawer and extracted a tiny folded paper. With this in his hand, he returned to Bully. “All right, son, we’ll let your goody-goody Cousin Bob Randall handle this for us. You go over to Fardale to-morrow and see him. Give him this”--and he held up the folded paper--“and tell him to get Merriwell to drink it any time in the forenoon next Saturday. It’s a powder, and all Randall will have to do is to shake it into a glass of water. It’ll fix him.” Colonel Carson’s eyes were malevolent as he spoke. Bully hung back, however. “No, you don’t, pop,” he cried, with something like fear, “I ain’t goin’ to mix up in no poisoning----” “Shut up, you fool!” snarled his father, glancing around. “This ain’t poison, but a powder that’ll send him off into a sound sleep for a while. It won’t hurt him in any fashion, but it’ll put him out o’ the game for sure.” “But what about Randall?” Bully queried weakly. “You tried to get him to throw the game with Franklin, and he got sore. He ain’t the kind to do this, pop.” “Oh, I sized him up pretty well,” chuckled the elder Carson wickedly. “Now listen, Bully: You work this right, and I’ll give you ten per cent of all I win on the game, see? This part of it depends on you, and you can do it fine.