“All right, then,” said Frank. “I see the practice game is over, so I’ll trot across to the office and phone down a telegram of acceptance.”
“Oh, by the way, Merriwell,” said Coach Trayne, stopping him, “who are you working out to fill Crockett’s place?”
“Well, Mr. Trayne, my choice happens to be holding down second right now,” and Frank looked across the diamond with a twinkle. “What do you think of him?”
The party turned. Standing awkwardly on second and waiting for a grounder from the batter was Villum Kess. He stood full on the sack itself, as though firmly determined not to let it get away from him. A burst of laughter went up, though Trayne kept silent.
“Him!” cried Clancy derisively. “He’s done nothing but right field up to now, Chip! Why, he’ll fall all over the infield!”
“He’s a joke,” said Billy Mac. “Oh, my eye! Look at that!”
Clancy gasped. As the batter sent a twisting grounder at the place Kess should have been standing, the German youth appeared to lose his balance and topple from the bag. He stumbled over his own foot, tried to recover in vain, and went headlong to the ground in front of the ball. By some weird chance it seemed to hit his glove, and as he sat up he grinned and tossed it to first.
“Dot vos der pusiness!” he squawked, as every one roared with laughter. “Yaw! Didn’t you toldt me so? You pet!”
“Talk about luck!” gasped Clancy. “Surely you’re not in earnest, Chip?”
“I am,” said Merry. “Maybe it’s luck, but I’ve noticed that Villum always makes the luck break his way, Clan. Get out to first and see if you can make him miss your pegs. If you can, I’ll reverse my decision.”
Clancy trotted off with a whoop, and Coach Trayne smiled.
“I wish you were going to stay at Fardale as captain, Chip! You’d either smash up the team or else it would be a wonder to behold!”
“Thanks for them kind words,” said Frank, with a chuckle, moving away. “You can announce that game for Saturday, Mr. Trayne!”
And he departed for Colonel Gunn’s office, in order to telephone his wire to the village.
It was commonly reported around Carsonville that the estimable Colonel Carson could tug more Satanic inspiration out of his yellow-gray goatee than Satan himself. At the present moment he seemed to be highly satisfied with himself.