“Good for you!” said Bully approvingly. “He has certainly treated you mis’ably, old hoss. You ought to be captain of the Fardale team right now! It ain’t fair treatment, I say.” “I reckon not! These low-down Yankees truckle to him abjectly, Cahson. You-all haven’t any idea of what goes on heah! When we played Franklin last Satuhday, that fellow held out the best men on the team until I was beaten. Then he showed up, put ’em in, and managed to win with luck.” Randall leaned back, trying to collect himself. Bully chuckled quietly. It was evident that his cousin had worked himself up into a riotous state of mind. Randall was honestly convinced that his version of the Franklin game was the true one. Had he pitched and won, he would have been elected captain. He pitched, and was being knocked out of the box when Merry arrived in the ninth inning and saved the game. All Fardale knew that Merriwell had been held prisoner, and that Clancy and Billy Mac had rescued him, all three appearing in the nick of time. Yet Randall only accepted that as a story put forth by Merry. He had brooded by himself, had pointedly avoided Chip on the baseball field, and gradually managed to get himself into a badly overwrought condition. Twisting every little incident, seeing everything in the light of his jealousy and bitterness, it was not hard for him to convince himself that he was the victim of a cleverly executed plot. His state of mind was a bad one, and would require some severe and sharp correction before his angle of vision could be straightened. Fortunately for himself, he had not attempted to convince any one else on the subject. “That’s right,” Bully encouraged him, playing his cards cunningly. “He’s done you dirt, Bob, for a fact. You ought to get even with him.” “What chance have I?” Randall asked bitterly. “I’m all alone here.” “Oh, I dunno about that. Pop and me, we figure to stand by our kin, Bob. Didn’t he try to help you by keepin’ Merriwell out o’ that Franklin game?” Randall nodded, forcing himself into a strained calmness. “Yes, and I want you to thank him for me, old man. It was no use, though.” “Virtue is its own reward,” quoted Bully. “We done our best. Now, pop would like to see you pitch against the Clippers on Saturday, Bob. O’ course, we mean to beat you, but I ain’t goin’ to be in the game, and pop would like to----” “No chance,” broke in Randall, with renewed bitterness. Then he glanced up, half suspiciously. “Why is your father so interested?” “Because he likes you, Bob.” Bully was too wise to persuade Randall along crooked lines. He sneered at his cousin, in his own mind, for being a “goody-goody” fellow. “I’d like to even up with Merriwell, Bob,” he went on cautiously. “We’d like to have you pitch Saturday ’cause you’re a better pitcher than Merriwell. We’ve got a new pitcher for the Clippers, and if we beat Fardale at its best, there’ll be all the more glory in it.”