“I’ll do my best, fellows,” promised Frank. “But you know I’ll not be able to pitch for at least three or four more days. I don’t know whether I hurt my ankle much to-day or not. Once or twice I gave it a twist. If I’d put some one else in and let him throw the ball over the pan, it would have been better. But I thought I might save the game. This game may be a bad thing for the Elks. It may frighten the other teams in the league.” “Go after another game right away, Frank,” urged Bart. “Put it far enough off so your ankle will get strong. We must redeem ourselves.” The others were just as anxious. Frank found every man on the team was yearning to wipe out the disgrace of defeat, so he agreed to see Jack Lawrence, the manager of the Elks, and try to arrange another game. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXI NO CHANCE FOR REVENGE. Ben Raybold, representative of the Northern Securities Company, was lighting a cigar at the stand in the office of the Antlers Hotel when he heard about the game of baseball that had been played in Elkton that afternoon. “The Merries?” said he, addressing the cigar clerk. “Do you mean Frank Merriwell’s team?” “Yes; our boys trimmed those fellows to-day.” Raybold lifted his eyebrows. “Do you mean to tell me that a local team defeated Merriwell’s team?” “Sure thing. I tell you, we’ve got the hottest team in Ohio right here in Elkton.” “You must have a hot team to beat those fellows. I’ve seen them play. They got away with the Chicagos two out of three games in Los Angeles.” “Well, I rather think our boys might do better than that,” said the clerk, throwing out his chest. Raybold smiled a bit. “Many queer things happen in baseball,” he said. “Your team is not a straight local nine?” “Oh, no,” was the proud answer. “We’ve got a salaried team. That is,” he hastily added, “three men are on salary. The others are employed in town. One of them is a bell boy here in this hotel.” The Northern Securities man shook his head in a puzzled manner. “And such a team got away with Frank Merriwell’s nine?” he said. “I don’t understand it.” The cigar clerk was touched. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Elkton has a team that can make any of ’em hustle. You ought to see our pitcher. He’s from Wisconsin. His name is Wolfers. Mark what I’m telling you, he’ll be in one of the big leagues within two years. I think he’s a better man than Cy Young or Chesbro, or any of them fellows. He uses the spit ball, and he can put it just where he wants to, which is better than some of the pitchers can do.” At this moment Bob Wolfers, accompanied by Jack Lawrence and Seymour Whittaker, a local baseball enthusiast and a man of wealth, entered the hotel.