The expected members of the new local team arrived before noon that day. In the afternoon Cameron had them out for practice.

They were, indeed, for the most part, well-known players, seven of them, at least, being professionals with records. Several were league men who had been blacklisted for one offense or another. Taken all together, they were a tough set and just the aggregation to win a game by bulldozing when other methods failed. They made a team that was certain to be heartily approved by the local toughs.

These players, the most of them, also stopped at the Mansion House. They looked Frank’s team over, with no effort to conceal their merriment and disdain. To them Merry’s players were a lot of stripplings.

“We’ll eat ’em up,” said Big Hickey, the Indianapolis man. “Why, dey won’t last t’ree innin’s.”

“Sho’ not,” chuckled Wash Johnson, the colored player from the Chicago Giants. “Dey is a lot o’ college fellers. Nebber seen none o’ dem college fellers dat could play de game wid professionals. No, sar.”

“They ain’t got-a da nerve,” observed Tony Tonando, the Italian from Kansas City. “Sometimes they play one-a, two or three-a inning first-a rate; but they no keep-a it up.”

“Easy frightened, easy frightened,” grunted Wally Weaver, the Indian. “When they play too well, then jump in and scare them. That’s easy.”

“Look here, you chaps,” said Tunk Moran, who had made a great reputation on the Springfield, Illinois, team, but had been fired for drinking, “I happen to know something about Frank Merriwell, and you’re off your trolley if you think you’re going to win from him by scaring him. If you beat that chap you’ll have to play baseball, and don’t you forget it.”

The others laughed at this and ridiculed Moran.

“All right,” he growled. “Just you wait until after the game and see if you don’t agree with me.”

The appearance of Cameron’s team in suits when they left the hotel to march to the ball ground was the signal for a great demonstration on the part of the youngsters of Cartersville, who were waiting to escort them. The cheering brought a number of the Merries to windows to look out, and they saw their opponents-to-be set off down the street, followed by the admiring crowd.

“Behold the gladiators whom we are to meet in the arena!” cried Jack Ready.

“They’re a hot bunch of old-stagers,” grunted Browning.

“It will keep us busy to cool them off,” said Frank. “Don’t get the idea that they are has beens. Half of them could play on fast league teams if they were not crooked and rebellious. They will go after us savage, with the idea of taking the sand out of us at the very start.”

“On the other hand,” said Rattleton, “if we get a start on them early in the game all the hoodlums will be against us and we’ll be in danger of the mob.”

“I have thought about that,” declared Frank. “I have a plan. Come, fellows, and we’ll talk it over.”

They gathered in one room, and Merry explained his plan, speaking as follows:

“Rattleton is right in fancying it will not do to get a big lead on those fellows at an early stage in the game. Of course, we might not be able to do so, even if we tried; but should the opportunity offer, we must still refrain from it and take chances on our ability to pull out toward the end. Cameron has no idea of permitting us to take the game under any circumstances. If we started off like winners the hoodlums would be set on us. I’ve had more than one experience with hoodlums. They can make it hot for any team by crowding down to the base lines, insulting the players, stoning them and doing a hundred things to rattle them. I am confident that, as long as the crowd has a belief that the local team is sure to win it will behave in a fairly decent manner. Cameron will make an effort to hold the toughs in check. Therefore, we must resort to the stratagem of keeping close to the enemy all through the game, with the hope of winning at the very finish by an unexpected spurt that will take them by surprise. Of course, we may lose in this manner; but I am confident it is also our only chance of winning.”

“I think you are right, Merry,” agreed Hodge. “If you could fix it with Cameron so that we may have our last turn at bat, there is a possible show for us.”

“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.”

“Well, I have with me a certified check for ten thousand dollars, and I believe the cashier at your bank will recognize it as good. If you are not running a bluff I’ll step out to the bank with you and deposit my check in the hands of one of the bank officials, with the understanding that I am backing Frank Merriwell and you are to put up a similar sum to back your own team. Now you put up............