Frank Merriwell's Son Part 43

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.

Gallup grinned.

"That was a hoss on yeou, wasn't it, mister?" he said.

"Would have been if I'd bought the beast," confessed Bearover, with seeming good nature. "Your Mr. Merriwell must be a very clever chap."

"I guess he's all right, by gum!" nodded Ephraim. "They don't git ahead of him much."

"He's been very successful, hasn't he?"

"You bet."

"Too much success is liable to swell the head of so young a man. It does him good to be taken down a notch now and then."

"I ain't never seen n.o.body that could take him daown."

"Well, we'll have to let him down a little to-morrow."

"Don't yeou believe it. Yeou fellers are caountin' on carryin' off that game, ain't ye? Waal, by jing! ye'll have to go some if ye do."

"Our boys can go some. In order to give you a show, I think we'll put in our second pitcher against you."

"Yeou take my advice and put in the best pitcher yeou've gut. He won't be none too good."

"You have a lot of confidence in your team."

"I've gut confidence in Frank Merriwell. I know what he can do on the slab, and, with Bart Hodge behind the bat, he'll show yeou some twists and shoots that'll make ye blink."

Bearover laughed gurglingly, his fat sides shaking.

"Why," he said, "they tell me in this town that Merriwell has some kind of a curve which twists like a snake. They say it curves in and out.

Whoever heard such rot!"

"Didn't yeou ever hear before this abaout Frank Merriwell's double shoot?"

"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed Bearover. "Double shoot? Ho! ho! ho! Is that what he calls it? Come, now, young man, don't try any more talking-horse tricks. There isn't no such thing as a double shoot. The spit ball is the nastiest thing to hit that ever was invented. It's the only new thing except Mathewson's 'fade-away.' I don't take any stock in the stories about Mathewson's fade-away. According to the yarns told, he has something that might be called a double shoot or a double curve, but I notice the batters are hitting him this year the same as usual. I think we'll make Mr. Merriwell very weary with his double shoot to-morrow afternoon."

"You kin think as much as yeou like. There ain't nothing to prevent yeou from thinking. We've heard all abaout your players. Happened to meet old Stillness a while ago at the bank.

"Old Stillness?"

"Yep. Ain't that his name? Stillness, Stillness--I mean Silence. He's sort of a betting gentleman, ain't he?"

"Oh, he's always looking for good things. He's ready to risk his money backing his team."

"He come mighty near losing a hundred to-day."

"How was that?"

Gallup explained.

"Then Frank Merriwell doesn't countenance betting?" questioned Bearover.

"He's plumb sot agin' it," answered Ephraim. "He don't believe in any sort of gambling."

"But evidently some of his friends are inclined to take a chance."

"Oh, yeou git some of the fellers stirred up, and they kinder fergit Frank's prejudice. Rub 'em agin' the fur, and they'll chuck up their last dollar."

"That's good sporting blood," nodded Bearover. "I don't suppose you ever bet?"

"Oh, I don't go raound lookin' for bets. I 'low it ain't jest good sense for anybody to resk money on onsartinties. Sp.e.c.k.e.rlation and gamblin'

has ruined lots of folks."

"But a little wager on a baseball game, or any game of chance or skill, adds spice to it," suggested the manager of the Rovers. "It makes it all the more interesting."

"There's interest enough in any good clean baseball game without betting," declared Ephraim. "I suppose your team is made up of clean players? They play the game on its merits, don't they?"

"Oh, yes," nodded the manager, "they play the game on its merits. At the same time they're good sc.r.a.pping players, and they're out for every point that belongs to them. That's the only way to win. None of the boys like to be robbed."

"Waal, they ain't to blame for that."

Bearover produced a cigar case.

"Have a smoke," he invited.

"Don't keer if I do, thank you," said Ephraim, as he accepted a cigar.

"You're a pleasant sort of chap," said the manager of the Rovers, as he bit off the end of a cigar and slipped the case back into his pocket.

"Wait a minute, I have a match. Here you are." He held the light for Gallup.

"Purty good weed that," observed Ephraim, as he puffed at it. "'Spect that ain't no five-center. Must be ten straight or three for a quarter, anyhow."

"These are Silence's special cigars. He buys them by the box. They cost him twenty dollars a hundred."

"Whew!" breathed Gallup, taking the cigar out of his mouth and looking at it admiringly. "That's twenty cents apiece. I've paid that price out West now and then, but I never heard of any one paying it in this part of the country, where cigars ought to be reasonable. Guess this is just abaout as good a piece of tobacker as I ever stuck in my face."

"I'm glad you appreciate it. We're pretty near the hotel. Let's drop in and have a drink."

"Much obleeged," said Ephraim, "but I don't drink. That's one of the bad habits I ain't never picked up."

"Well, you can come along and take something cooling. It's pretty hot to-day. There'll be some of the boys in the billiard room at Priley's.

You can meet them and look them over. If you don't care to drink, that's your business, and I'll guarantee you won't be urged."