“I’ll do what I can,” assured Merriwell, “although it is possible he will refuse such a request if I make it. If we can’t get our last turn at bat we’ll have to do the best we can. But I wish you all to keep in mind the scheme I have proposed, and play from the start with the idea of holding them down and keeping close to them, so that we may have a chance at the finish.” To this they agreed readily enough. During the remainder of the day they saw nothing of the strange woman who had befriended them. The following morning, directly after breakfast, a stranger appeared at the Mansion House. He was a quiet, smooth-faced young man, and he registered as “Warren Doom, Chicago.” Doom betrayed interest at once when he learned there was to be a baseball game in town that afternoon, and when he was told that the locals were to meet Frank Merriwell’s team, his interest became genuine enthusiasm. He was purchasing a cigar at the counter when he received this bit of information. “Going to play Merriwell’s team?” he cried. “Well, I struck this place at the proper moment! I’ve seen Merriwell pitch once, and he’s a wonder. I’ve always longed to see him again. Your team hasn’t a chance against him.” “What’s that?” exclaimed the man behind the counter disdainfully. “I reckon you don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve got a team right here in this town that can skin anything outside the two big leagues. Our players are professionals and crackajacks. This Merriwell bunch looks like a lot of boys. They’re amateurs, and Cartersville will bury them up this afternoon.” “Oh, come, come!” smiled Doom. “It’s plain you are the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t care how many professionals you have, Merriwell will defeat you. I’ll bet on it.” “How much will you bet?” was the hot inquiry. “Anything from ten dollars to ten thousand.” “That’s a bluff.” “Is it? I’ll back it up.” “Of course it is a bluff,” said another voice, as Carey Cameron, puffing at a cigarette, came sauntering up. “The cocksure gentleman never saw ten thousand dollars.” Doom turned with his freshly lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, surveying Cameron critically. “Who are you?” he inquired. “Why are you so sudden to chip into this?” “I’m the manager of the Cartersville baseball team, and my name is Cameron. I happened to hear you making a lot of bluff betting talk, which I am positive you can’t back up.” “How positive are you?” “Positive enough to stake ten thousand dollars against a similar sum that Cartersville will win to-day. Put up—or shut up!” “I don’t happen to have ten thousand dollars in cash on my person.” “Of course not!” cried Cameron sneeringly. “Bluffers never are able to make good.” “I believe you have a good bank in town?” “Yes; the First National.”