CHAPTER XXI.

DICK MERRIWELL’S FIST.

When they came to sign the agreement Harrison was not a little surprised to note that instead of “Richard Dick” the name the young man wrote at the foot of the document was Richard Merriwell.

“Hey?” cried the manager of the Outlaws, gazing at that signature. “What’s this? I thought you said your name was Dick.”

“And so it is,” was the smiling answer; “Dick Merriwell. While we were talking I told you that Richard Dick would serve for the time being.”

“Merriwell? Merriwell? I’ve heard of a fellow by that name--Frank Merriwell.”

“My brother.”

“That so? He was a great college pitcher. He was one of the college twirlers the Big Leagues really scrambled for--and couldn’t get.”

“My brother always had a decided disinclination to play professional baseball. For him, like myself, it was a highly enjoyable sport; but to take it up professionally went against the grain.”

“Oh, yes,” grinned Harrison, “I understand about that. He didn’t have to do it. If he had been poor, maybe he’d looked at it differently; but he was loaded with the needful, and, therefore, he could afford to pose.”

“At one time, in the midst of his college career, my brother was forced to leave Yale on account of poverty.”

“Really?”

“Really. He might have gone into professional baseball then and made money.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Because of his prejudice against professionalism in that sport; because he hoped some day to return to Yale and finish his course, and he wished to play upon his college team.”

“Oh, that rule about professionalism is all rot.”

“It is useless to enter into a discussion over it. It may seem to work unfairly toward certain clean young college men who might make money playing summer baseball; but on the whole, it’s an absolute necessity to keep college baseball from deteriorating into something rotten and disgraceful.”

“It’s pretty rotten now in some cases. Lots of college men play for money on the quiet.”

“Some may, but not so many as is generally supposed. Those who do so are dishonest.”

“That rule makes them dishonest.”

“No, it doesn’t. They might do something else. There are many ways by which a college man can earn money to help himself. If he’s a good player or athlete, he will find hands enough extended to help him. He will be given opportunities of earning money honestly by honest work. The trouble with nine out of ten of the ball players who play for money is that they shirk real work. I said I wouldn’t enter into a discussion over this rule, but you seem to have lured me into one.”

“What did your brother do when he had to leave college and go to work?”

“He started in as an engine wiper in a railroad locomotive roundhouse.”

“Engine wiper! A greasy, dirty, slaving job.”

“Well, pretty near that; but he didn’t stay at it long.”

“Oh! Ho! ho!” laughed Harrison derisively. “It was too much for him, hey? He quit, did he?”

Dick Merriwell flushed a little.

“My brother never quit in his life,” he retorted. “He was promoted. It wasn’t long before he was a locomotive fireman, and the day came when his place was at the throttle.”

“That wasn’t doing so worse,” admitted the baseball manager. “He must be some hustler.”

“He’s a hustler all right. He never yet put his hand to the plow and turned back.”

“And you’re his brother?”

“His half-brother.”

“I haven’t taken much interest in college baseball these late years,” admitted Harrison. “Been too busy. What position do you play?”

“I pitch.”

“Well, my boy, we’ll try to treat you gentle and kind to-morrow. It would be a shame to spoil your reputation all at once.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” laughed Dick. “Now, we’ll put up that forfeit with the hotel proprietor, with the understanding that it doesn’t stand if we can’t get the park for the game.”

“We? You said----”

“That I thought I could make arrangements with Charlie Loring. I do. I shall attend to that matter at once. Are you stopping at this hotel?”

“Yes; but my players are at the Sunset.”

“I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve secured the park.”

“O. K. I’ve got a lot of paper I’ll agree to scatter through this town, telling people just what sort of a team they’ll see if they come out for the game to-morrow.”

“And I’ll attend to the rest of the advertising.”

At the desk they called for the proprietor, who came forth, after a brief delay, from his private office. When the matter was explained he agreed to hold the forfeit money, which was placed in his hands.

As they were turning from the desk a lanky, hard-faced man with a hoarse, rasping voice approached and spoke to Harrison.

“What’s this about the game here?” he inquired. “I hear it’s off. If there’s no go to-morrow, I’ll run up to Denver this afternoon to visit an old partner of mine who’s playing on the Denver nine.”

“It looks now, Stover,” said Harrison, “as if there might be a game to-morrow, but not with the regular Springs team.”

The fellow with the harsh voice appeared decidedly displeased.

“I was counting on a lay-off,” he growled.

“You get lay-offs enough, Stover. Out in this country we don’t play more than four games a week at the most.”

“Well, when we’re not playing, we’re pounding around over four or five hundred miles of railroad at a jump.”

“Quit your growling. You have a snap, and you know it. Can’t you shake that grouch you’ve had for the last ten days?”

“Who do we play with, anyhow?”

“A team of college men.”

“What? Well, that will be a ripping old game! Them college kids can’t play baseball. They don’t know what it is.”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind after to-morrow,” smiled Dick.

The fellow gave him a contemptuous stare.

“Oh, I reckon you’re one of the college guys.”

“You’re right.”

“He’s the manager of the team,” explained Harrison.

“He looks it. Somebody picked him too soon. He isn’t half ripe yet.”

“Don’t mind Buzzsaw, Merriwell,” said the manager of the Outlaws. “This is his way when his liver goes wrong.”

“He needs to take something for his liver,” said Dick. “A shaking up would do it good. If he handed out enough loose tongue to some people he might get the shaking up.”

“Well, blamed if you ain’t a sassy young rat!” rasped Buzzsaw Stover, an ugly light in his eyes.

Harrison grasped the man’s shoulder, turned him around, and gave him a push.

“Go away, Stover,” he commanded. “You’ve been ready to fight with anybody for a week or more.”

“By and by,” laughed Dick quietly, “he will get what he’s hunting for.”

Stover walked out of the lobby.

A few minutes later Dick followed. He found Buzzsaw waiting on the street. The pugnacious Outlaw blocked Dick’s way.

“What you need, my baby, is a first-class spanking,” rasped Stover. “If you’d minded your own business, I’d had the rest of to-day and to-morrow to do as I please.”

“If I was manager of your team you would have the rest of to-day and to-morrow, and the brief remainder of this season, and all the seasons to come, to do as you please,” returned Dick quietly. “I would hand you a quick shoot that would land you at liberty to please yourself for all time.”

“Oh, you would, hey?”

“That’s what I told you.”

“Well, I’ll hand you something you won’t forget!”

As he roared forth the threat Stover sprang in and swung a blow at the face of the seemingly unprepared Yale man.

Several minutes later Buzzsaw awoke to find Warwhoop Clinker and Gentle Willie Touch laboring to revive him, while a curious crowd stood around looking on.

“What’s--what’s matter?” mumbled Stover. “What happened to me--sunstroke? This blamed hot weather----”

“It was a stroke, all right,” murmured Gentle Willie, “and it was the son of some proud father who passed it out to you. He was a nice, clean, sweet-looking young man.”

“What’s that?” snarled Stover, struggling to rise. “What are you talking about?”

“You got up against a polite gent and made one reach for him with a bunch of fives,” explained Warwhoop. “Willie and I were over across the way and saw it all. We didn’t know what was going to happen until it was all over and you had stretched yourself out to rest in the dust. He reached your jaw with the quickest wallop I ever saw delivered. There must have been chain lightning behind it, for you went down and out instanter.”

Stover felt of his jaw and rubbed his head wonderingly.

“Who was it?” he asked. “I remember talking to that upstart who’s made arrangements to put a college team against us to-morrow. He got sassy, and I decided to take it out of him.”

“You made a slight miscalculation, Buzzsaw,” murmured Gentle Willie. “He knocked you stiff.”

“It’s a lie!” snarled Stover. “Somebody hit me from behind.”

“No,” denied Clinker, “that young fellow ducked your blow and rose with a wallop on your jaw that sent you to by-bye land.”

It was beaten in upon Buzzsaw at last that he had been knocked out in a flash by a single blow of Dick Merriwell’s fist. He struggled to his feet a bit weak, but shook off the supporting hand of Warwhoop.

“He took me by surprise,” he snarled. “I wasn’t looking for it. Wait! I’ll get him for that, and I’ll get him good and hard!”