“Oh, your pitcher may be a good man,” said Raybold, taking his cigar from his mouth and examining it critically: “but you ought to know that Frank Merriwell is, beyond doubt, the cleverest slab artist not gobbled up by one of the two big leagues. The Boston Americans and the New York Nationals both want him.” “Is that straight, mister?” asked Wolfers, butting in and winking at the cigar clerk. “Yes, that’s straight.” “I suppose you know it for a fact?” “I suppose I do.” “Well, that fellow wouldn’t last twenty seconds on either the Bostons or the New Yorks. He’s the greatest shine for a pitcher that I ever saw.” Raybold flushed a bit and chewed at the end of his cigar, while he surveyed Wolfers from head to foot. “I presume you’re competent to judge?” he said. “I presume I am.” “It’s a fine thing for a man to have a high estimation of his ability as a judge. Who are you?” “My name is Wolfers.” “Oh-ho! I see! Professional jealousy. A case of sour grapes.” Wolfers laughed derisively. “Why should it be a case of sour grapes? Merriwell got his medicine all right to-day.” “Did you ever get bumped?” “What has that got to do with it? All pitchers get hit occasionally.” “That’s right; and, therefore, I claim that you can’t judge Merriwell’s ability by one game. Probably it will be different in the next game.” “There will be no next game,” said the manager. “How is that?” “One game wound us up with those chaps.” “Don’t you dare play them another?” “Dare? Ha! ha! ha! That’s a joke! Look here, my friend, there’s nothing we’re afraid to hitch up with.” “Then why don’t you give them another chance at you?” “Because we have games arranged for the rest of this week, and we expect to be playing in the league again by the first of next week. We can’t bother with small fry. We play out of town to-morrow and next day, and the Cuban Giants meet us here Saturday.” “I like the way you talk about small fry!” exclaimed Raybold, the tone of his voice indicating that he did not like it. “Besides,” said Lawrence, “I don’t fancy Merriwell or any of his crowd want to tackle us again.” “That’s where you make a mistake,” said a quiet voice, as Frank entered the office, limping the least bit. “We’re very anxious to get another game with you, Mr. Lawrence. We think we might reverse the result of to-day.” Raybold’s eyes twinkled. He recognized Frank at once, but, having never met him, he did not speak. Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. “It seems to me you ought to be satisfied, Merriwell,” he said. “You got your bumps to-day, didn’t you?” “You certainly hit me enough,” confessed Frank. “Still you are anxious for more. Some people never know when they’ve got enough.” This kind of talk was most annoying, but Merriwell had perfect self-control. “That’s right,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps I’m one of that kind.” “Well, out of pity for you, we shouldn’t think of making another game with you, even if we had the opportunity.”