“Rot!” exclaimed Evan Hartwick, sharply.  “I don’t take stock in anything of the sort.  Merriwell may make a pitcher some day, but he is raw.  Why, he would get his eye batted out if he were to go up against Harvard on the regular team.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Andy Emery.  “He is pretty smooth people.  Is there anybody knows Pierson made such an observation concerning him?”

“Yes, there is,” answered Parker.

“Who knows it?”

“I do.”

“Did you hear him?”

“I did.”

“That settles it.”

“Yes, that settles it!” grated Roland Ditson as he walked away.  “Parker didn’t lie, and Pierson has intimated that Merriwell may be given a trial on the Varsity nine.  If he is given a trial it will be his luck to succeed.  He must not be given a trial.  How can that be prevented?”

Then Ditson set himself to devise some scheme to prevent Frank from obtaining a trial on the regular nine.  It was not an easy thing to think of a plan that would not involve himself in some way, and he felt that it must never be known that he had anything to do with such a plot.

That night Ditson might have been seen entering a certain saloon in New Haven, calling one of the barkeepers aside, and holding a brief whispered conversation with him.

“Is Professor Kelley in?” asked Roll.

“He is, sir,” replied the barkeeper.  “Do you wish to see him?”

“Well—­ahem!—­yes, if he is alone.”

“I think he is alone.  I do not think any of his pupils are with him at present, sir.”

“Will you be kind enough to see?” asked Ditson.  “This is a personal matter—­something I want kept quiet.”

The barkeeper disappeared into a back room, was gone a few minutes, and then returned and said: 

“The professor is quite alone.  Will you go up, sir?”

“Y-e-s,” said Roll, glancing around, and then motioning for the barkeeper to lead the way.

He was taken into a back room and shown a flight of stairs.

“Knock at the door at the head of the flight,” instructed the barkeeper, and after giving the man some money Ditson went up the stairs.

“Come in!” called a harsh voice when he knocked at the door.

Ditson found Kelley sitting with his feet on a table, while he smoked a strong-smelling cigar.  There were illustrated sporting papers on the table, crumpled and ragged.

“Well, young feller, watcher want?” demanded the man, withont removing his feet from the table or his hat from his head.

Ditson closed the door.  He was very pale and somewhat agitated.

“Are we all alone?” he asked, choking a bit over the question.

“Dat’s wot we are,” nodded the professor.

“Is it a sure thing that our conversation cannot be overheard?”

“Dead sure.”

Ditson hesitated.  He seemed to find it difficult to express himself just as he desired.