“There they go along the edge of the Dead Timbers,” said Mr. Ashley, watching the runners through a glass. “I’ve counted them all but three. Three seem missing entirely.”
“That’s so,” agreed Paul Proctor, who likewise had a pair of strong field glasses. “They strung out now, but three of them have never issued from the cedars down in the hollow.”
“Can you see anything of Merriwell?” anxiously asked Hodge, who had just mounted the steps to the observatory.
He bore not a mark of his encounter with Hollingsworth, although his face was somewhat flushed and he seemed to be perspiring freely. He had field glasses of his own, and these he quickly trained on the distant moving specks which were creeping up along the edge of the far-away, dark timberland.
“I haven’t been looking for him particularly,” acknowledged Proctor. “I think one of our boys is missing, although I cannot tell which one. I wonder what happened in the cedars.”
Something had happened to Frank Merriwell before he plunged into the cedars. Leaping a bit of thick brush, he thrust his left foot into the hole of some sort of burrowing animal and went down, giving his ankle a fearful wrench. For a moment he fancied he had broken the bone.
“Hurt?” cried Tom Bramwell, as he passed.
“No,” answered Frank, rising quickly.
When he tried to step on that foot, however, he nearly went down, and an excruciating pain shot from his ankle to his hip. This cutting pain threatened to rob him of strength and put him out of the race at once.
But he found the ankle was not broken. It was a wrench or a sprain. He knew sprains were sometimes more obstinate than breaks in the recovery, yet he had no thought of letting that stop him.
So he ran on in the rear of several of the contestants, the whole pack being stretched out and more or less scattered. He could not run fast, and it was only by setting his teeth and forcing himself forward that he got on at all.
More than that, every moment his ankle seemed to get worse. He had thought the pain might cease after a little, but each time his foot met the ground it jabbed him afresh.
Not one fellow in a thousand would have continued in the running. But Frank Merriwell was one in ten thousand. He had the fortitude to endure pain stoically. Not a sound came from his lips. His jaws were set and his eyes filled with unconquerable fire. He forced himself to greater speed and plunged into the cedars whither Bramwell had disappeared.
Instead of keeping straight through the cedars Frank bore to the right. He fought his way into a tangled thicket, where branches whipped him stingingly in the face, and at last came staggeringly through. Close at hand was the border of the Dead Timbers, a wild and seemingly impassable tract of forest, swept and blackened by fire, overtaken some time by a tornado, with tall trunks twisted and tangled in chaotic confusion.
Merry looked for the shattered pine and found it where he looked. It was his guide post. There he plunged into what seemed the most impassable portion of the jungle. He fell on his hands and knees to creep some distance along a hidden path, but soon arose, with the fearful pain stinging him to weakness at each step.
He wondered if Bramwell was far in advance. Together, aided by the hint overheard by Bart Hodge and conveyed to Frank, they had searched for the secret passage and found it. By means of it they could cut off much of the distance, those who knew nothing about it being compelled to follow round the edge of the timbers.
Soon the path became more open. On either side the dead branches had been cut away. Huntley had prepared it so he could run with speed through this portion of the secret cut-off.
Finally Merry arrived at a part of the forest where the trees had been caught and twisted and scattered in such a tangle that passage seemed impossible. There he found a long tree trunk that extended upward slopingly over the tangled mass; and, balancing himself, he used it as a bridge, mounting along it until he was at least twenty feet above the ground, with a dark jungle below, from which, should he fall, it might be almost impossible to force an egress.
Up there he found yet another dead tree upon which he ventured.
Suddenly he halted.
From beneath his very feet came a call for help!
Frank was astonished. He looked downward, clutching an upthrust limb to steady himself, but could see no one.
“Oh, Merriwell!” came the call.
“Hello!” he answered. “Who’s down there?”
“It is I—Bramwell.”
“Bramwell? What are you doing down there?”
“I’m stuck and I can’t get out. I’ve climbed part of the way out, but I can get no higher. Go on and finish the run, but come back for me afterward, for I think I’ll have to stay here.”
And now, peering into the gloom, Merry caught a glimpse of the gray face of Bramwell upturned some distance below. Evidently the fellow had fallen from the tree trunk in trying to cross.
“I’ll get you out now,” said Frank.
“Don’t you do it—don’t stop for it!” exclaimed the fellow below. “If you do Huntley will win the race.”
“If I don’t he may win just the same. I’ve sprained my ankle. You’re the man to beat him in case I give out entirely.”
Frank was acting even as he spoke. At a distance he saw a long, dead limb that had been almost twisted off at the base. It did not take him long to reach the limb, break it wholly clear, return with it and thrust one end down until Bramwell could grasp it. There were other branches and limbs and tangled masses by which the fellow could assist himself, and slowly, little by little, Merry drew him up. Although it was not done swiftly, little time was wasted, and soon Frank was able to give the other a hand and assist him to the tree trunk. Together they passed over the jungle and reached that part of the path beyond.
“Oh, if we can beat Huntley after this!” exclaimed Bramwell. “I did not fall down there, Merriwell. He met me on that tree trunk and struck me off with a heavy stick. I did not see him until I was right upon him, so busy was I watching where I placed my feet. Evidently he had discovered I was following him closely and knew of the path.”
“He is in the same class with Hollingsworth,” said Frank. “They make a fine pair! I’ve sprained my ankle, Bramwell.”
“Did it when you fell?”
“Yes.”
“But it isn’t badly injured?”
“Bad enough. I’m afraid it will put me out of the running before I can cover the distance. You take the lead and do your prettiest. If you can beat Huntley, by all means beat him.”
“I will!” fiercely cried Bramwell. “He shall never have that trophy if I can help it! But he has a start.”
“You should cut his lead down. He’ll think you are disposed of, and he may take it easy as soon as he fancies he is reasonably sure of winning.”
Bramwell took the lead, as Merry had suggested, but Frank kept at his heels. Together they came out from the Dead Timbers and pressed on.
With the endurance of a man of iron, Merry seemed to pay no heed to the pain and his now badly swollen ankle. He talked to his companion, giving him advice and instructions as they ran. Where the ground was rough and uneven he warned Bramwell to run loosely, in order not to jar and shock himself as he would were his muscles taut. He corrected Bramwell’s too long stride in descending steeps and urged him to a steady, strong gait in mounting ordinary slopes.
“Why,” said the Ashport man, “with you for a coach we might, all of us, have learned much more about cross-country running than we now know.”
Together they passed the first point where watchers noted their numbers and recorded them. From a height they looked back and discovered the most of the runners behind them.
One man, however, was in advance.
No one save Merriwell himself ever knew how much he endured and how keenly he suffered during that cross-country run. Considering what he accomplished no one could have appreciated his unconquerable determination not to give up and drop out.
Toward the end, when all the greater difficulties were passed, he and Bramwell still clinging together, they came to Ragged Hill. They knew that not more than one man was ahead of them, and that man they had seen disappearing over the crest of the hill as they mounted its lower slopes.
Once or twice before this Bramwell had urged Frank to take the lead. This he now did once more.
“You are the man to beat Huntley,” he declared. “I fear I can’t do it.”
“You have too many fears,” said Frank. “Huntley hasn’t seen us. From the top of the hill he surveyed the country behind him. He must have seen most of the runners who are near, and he must feel that he has time to burn. He is full of confidence now.”
“You’re the one to take the confidence out of him.”
Frank waited for no further urging. He took the lead and set such a pace in mounting to the crest of the hill, following the difficult path they had discovered, that Bramwell dropped some distance in the rear.
The eastern side of the hill was partly cleared or had never borne timber. Down the declivity sped Merry. He cut hither and thither, choosing the best course.
Halfway down the hill was an old stone wall. In one particular spot the wall was lower than elsewhere, and behind it, just at that point, crouched two masked ruffians clutching sand bags.
One of them had peered over the wall and seen Frank coming down the hill.
“This is the bloke, pal!” he growled. “Reddy ter soak him!”
“All right!” hissed the other.
On came the runner. Like a bird he sailed over the weakest part of the old wall, wholly unaware of the masked ruffians who were lying in wait for him at that point.
They rose as he came over, and both leaped at him.
He saw them before his feet again touched the ground. With his upflung arms he sought to protect his head. The moment his feet touched the earth he ducked.
They were on him. One struck him a blow that staggered him, although it did not land full and fair.
The other missed him entirely.
But Frank went down to one knee, and they followed him up.
“Lay him stiff, pal!” snarled one.
“Stiff an’ cold!” panted the other.
Instead of seeking to rise, as they expected him to do, Frank shot out a foot and caught one of the men fairly in the pit of the stomach, doubling him up and hurling him backward.
Then he turned instantly on his back, with his feet toward the other, who sought to fling himself on Frank as he lay thus.
Both of Merry’s legs shot up from the ground as the man came down upon him. They caught the legs of the ruffian across the shins. A surprising result followed. The man’s feet went upward and he turned over in the air, falling on his back beyond Merry, with his head toward Frank’s head.
By this time Merriwell was up and had the wretch by the throat. He held him thus with one hand, tearing off his mask with the other.
“I want to see your features, my fine bird!” he said. “A trip to the stone jug will cure you of your pranks, perhaps.”
In the meantime, the other fellow had been flung back toward the weak point in the stone wall, and Bramwell, following Merry over, landed on the wretch with both feet and stretched him quivering on the ground.
“This one is cooked, Merriwell!” he cried.
“Go on, Bramwell—go on!” urged Merry. “Leave them to me! I’m out of the race now.”
The Ashport man hesitated a moment. He saw that Frank was in a position to make the ruffians his captives. If he lingered to give aid there would be no chance of defeating Huntley.
Away he went.
Frank was on his feet now. He limped to the spot where the second man lay, stripped off his mask and looked at him.
“I’ll know you both,” he muttered, and shot away in pursuit of Bramwell.
The waiting crowd had grown weary when, from the observatory of the clubhouse, came a cry. Then followed the announcement that the first runner had appeared in sight.
Word ran down the line. The road was cleared again. People began to cheer and stand on tiptoes.
Bart Hodge, watching in the observatory, had found it difficult to repress an exclamation of bitterest disappointment when he turned his glass on the runner far away across the fields and discovered it was not Merry.
“It’s Huntley!” he mentally groaned. “Where is Frank?”
“There’s another!” shouted Paul Proctor. “Who is it? Who is it? It’s one of our boys!”
“I believe it is,” said Robert Ashley.
“It—it’s Bramwell!” declared the astounded president of the club. “He’s gaining on Huntley, too! Huntley is fagged! Bramwell seems fresh! It’s going to be a hot finish!”
The excitement was growing, but it increased when a third runner appeared.
“There’s Merriwell!” said Hodge, unable to keep still.
It was Frank, and Bart saw he was gaining on both Bramwell and Huntley. Still he detected something wrong in Merry’s gait and began to suspect that an accident had befallen him.
“That’s it—that’s what’s the trouble!” he muttered. “Otherwise he’d be leading now.”
Huntley looked back and saw the two pursuers. He tried to spurt, but his knees seemed weak beneath him. However, he held on grimly.
Down at the far end of the people who lined the road cheering rose. They could see the runners.
“Come on, Merry—come on!” whispered Hodge. “You can do it yet!”
Huntley reached the road. His strength seemed renewed. The cheers of his friends braced him wonderfully. It was but half a mile to the finish, and he let himself out. But he was in distress, and occasionally he lifted his clenched hands and pressed them to his breast.
Bramwell continued to gain. He struck the road and came after Huntley in a manner that threatened to do the work in a hurry.
Then came Frank.
“Look at Merriwell!”
“He’s running like a man in a hundred yards dash!”
“He’s closing the gap!”
“He’ll pass them both!”
The strain was too much for Huntley. Within sight of the finish he began to reel.
Bramwell shot past, and a wild yell went up from the Ashportites.
But Merriwell was gaining, gaining, gaining! Could he pass Bramwell? He was doing his best.
The tape was stretched; the judges were waiting.
Bramwell heard thudding feet close behind him. Something seemed bursting in his breast. It was his heart. Let it burst! He heard a dull roar, which was the cheering of the excited throng. But he could not see. Twenty yards from the tape he went blind for the time. He kept on his feet, however.
To the crowd in general it seemed that the two runners breasted the tape at the same moment.
But, looking down from the observatory, Bart Hodge uttered a groan, for he saw that Bramwell reached it a second in advance.
The Ashport man had won.
That night, in the Ashport Opera House, before a great gathering of enthusiastic people, the trophy was presented to Bramwell by Mr. Ashley.
Then Tom Bramwell spoke up and told how he came to win. He told how Merriwell had discovered the short cut through Dead Timber Jungle, and how Frank had rescued him from the trap into which he had been cast by Huntley. He also told how Merry had covered more than three-fourths of the distance with a sprained ankle, and how, at that very moment, he was in bed under the care of a doctor. Then he proposed cheers for Frank, which were given with such a will that the windows of the building rattled.
Herbert Hollingsworth was not there, for he had not waited to witness the finish of the race. Fearing Merriwell’s wrath, he fled from Ashport.
Nor did Arthur Huntley linger. With Phil Proctor’s assurance that charges would be preferred against him, he decided it best to get out quickly—and did so.
As for the two ruffians who had tried to sandbag Merriwell, they followed the example of their employer and vanished.
The next stopping place of the Merries on their eastern journey was Elkton, Ohio, a red-hot baseball town, its team being one of the four-cornered Central League.
Elkton’s misfortune was its lack of first-class amateur baseball players. Although there were many players in town, it happened that the place had not produced a single star in many seasons.
For this reason, according to the agreement entered into by the managers of the different teams in the Central League, Elkton was greatly handicapped.
By this agreement, no team was to have on its list more than three salaried players, or professionals. In order to make the games fast and attract spectators who would not be satisfied with ordinary amateur baseball, the by-laws of the league permitted each manager to engage three professionals. For the most part the teams had secured expert pitchers and catchers.
The early part of the season had proved discouraging for Elkton, as her weak local men were unable to bat effectively against the fine pitching of the clever “slab artists” of the other clubs. As a result, Elkton had fallen to the foot of the list and seemed destined to remain there.
The pride of the Elkton followers of the game was aroused. The association held a meeting, at which it was made plain that one of two courses must be pursued. Either the local team must be disbanded and Elkton must retire from the league in disgrace, or, at any cost, something must be done to make the Elks as strong as the strongest of their rivals.
Elkton could not bear the thought of confessing itself too weak to cope with the other towns on the diamond. After a deal of heated argument and discussion a proposition was made to secure a new team throughout—a team that could “wallop” anything in the State, barring only the big league teams of Cincinnati, Cleveland, and Toledo. It was even proposed to have an aggregation that could “trim” Toledo.
It would take money to do this, and, at the height of the patriotic fever developed in the meeting, one of the directors announced that he would start a subscription paper with one hundred dollars. He backed up his talk by hastily drawing up the paper and attaching his name thereto, pledging himself to pay one hundred dollars for the support of such a team, providing one thousand dollars was raised.
Within ten minutes seven hundred and fifty dollars had been subscribed.
Then, somewhat cooled, the enthusiasts paused and began to consider another difficulty.
It was plain the required amount would be pledged; but money could not overcome the clause in the by-laws of the league whereby each team was restricted to not more than three salaried players.
There was further discussion and argument, which was settled at length by the suggestion that the players required be engaged by different men of business in Elkton, not to play baseball, but to act as grocery clerks and in other capacities. Of course, these men would not be required to work like other clerks; but they could appear at the business houses of their employers and seem to busy themselves for an hour or so each day, and these so-called employers should pay them their salaries. Their real business would be to play baseball and defeat the now crowing rivals of the spirited little town.
This was the plan Elkton attempted to carry out. The manager of the team scarcely hesitated at any expense in securing players, and in a wonderfully brief space of time he brought together a team that was really formidable and one that far outclassed any other organization in the league.
Then arose further trouble.
The league association held a meeting, at which the managers of the various teams were commanded to appear. At this meeting it was asserted that Elkton had transgressed the by-laws, and it was voted to suspend the Elks until the team should be placed in organized form to comply with the requirement concerning salaried players.
Elkton stood her ground, contending that if her business men were patriotic enough to employ baseball players as clerks and let them off from their labors to play baseball the by-laws of the league were not transgressed.
The matter was hanging fire. The Central League was puttering along with three teams. Elkton believed the other places would succumb in time. And so, in order to keep things moving and get her team into the best form possible, Elkton arranged games with independent teams.
And it happened that this was the situation just when the Merries struck the town. Frank and his team had not been an hour in the town when their presence became known to the manager of the Elks, and a representative at once called on Frank and challenged him to a game. The challenge was promptly accepted, and the citizens of Elkton and the surrounding country turned out in large numbers to witness the work of the reorganized Elks against what was known to be the strongest independent team in the country.
At first the spectators had been disappointed as the visitors seemed to have everything their own way, but at the end of seven hard-hitting innings the Elks tied the score at nine to nine.
Dade Morgan was pale and dejected as he took a seat beside Frank on the bench.
“You must go in and pitch the game out, Merry,” he said. “My arm is gone. I’ve pitched it clean off trying to hold them down. They’ll bat me all over the lot if I stay in. It will be a shame to lose this game after holding them down to one run for five innings. If they take the lead we’re ruined. That man Wolfers, who replaced Cutts in the fifth, is a wonder. We haven’t been able to get a hit off him.”
“He’s a good pitcher,” agreed Frank. “I’ve been watching him. He has all kinds of kinks and speed, and his head is full of brains. But you know why I don’t want to pitch to-day, Dade. My ankle is almost well. If I pitch, I’m sure to hurt it. Next week, according to promise, I’m due back at Ashport to take part in the all-round championship contest. I can’t compete in that with a lame ankle.”
“You’re right,” admitted Morgan. “I’ll finish the game if you say so; but I’m confident I’ll never pitch again if I do. It will ruin my arm. You know I’m not a quitter, and I——”
“No one knows you’re not a quitter better than I do,” said Frank promptly. “If you feel that way about your arm, I wouldn’t have you stay in the box for anything in the world.”
“Besides,” said Dade, “the game is tied, and you can hold those sluggers down. They are the fiercest batters we’ve encountered this season.”
“Sluggers is the correct name for them,” nodded Merriwell. “No wonder the Central League of Ohio is fighting against taking in the reconstructed Elkton aggregation. Every man on this team is a professional with a reputation.”
Frank pulled off his sweater.
“What are you going to do?” eagerly asked the other players. “Are you going in?”
“Sure,” he nodded. “You bat this inning, Dade, if your turn comes.”
Instantly the whole team seemed to brighten up. They had been dejected by the manner in which the Elks of Elkton had climbed up on them and tied the score; but with Merry in the box it seemed that they would have little trouble in stopping the tally-getting career of their opponents.
Dick Starbright, who had taken his place at bat, smiled joyously on observing that Merry was preparing to warm up.
Hodge being the batter who followed Starbright, Frank asked Badger to do the catching.
“One to the stable!” bellowed a delighted Elktonite, as Frank started to warm up.
“We’ll send this one after him!” shouted another.
“He’ll be fruit for our boys!” whooped a third.
“You’ll find it some different, gents,” muttered Buck Badger, as he tossed the big catcher’s mitt at his feet for a base in order to let Merry find control by throwing over it. “This game is ours now. That’s whatever!”
Wolfers grinned viciously. There was something about his appearance, as well as his name, that suggested a wolf. He was pleased to see Merriwell preparing to enter the box, for he had absolute confidence in himself. But he discovered a sudden and surprising change in the manner of the batters. Starbright went after the ball with resolution, making foul after foul.
“Oh, you would, would ye!” muttered the Elkton pitcher. “Well, why don’t ye!”
“Tut-tut-taking a bub-bub-bite out of it every time, Dick!” cried Joe Gamp. “You’ll land on the trade-mark in a minute.”
“Yah!” nodded Dunnerwurst; “der trade-mark vill land on you in a minute, py Shimminy! Id vill knock you a mile.”
“Strike him out, Wolfers!” implored the spectators. “He’s easy. Strike the big fellow out!”
Wolfers was working hard, and he finally succeeded in fooling the yellow-haired chap to his satisfaction, for Dick missed the third strike and was declared out.
“How easy!” laughed a man on the bleachers. “That’s the kind of a pitcher to have!”
“That’s the kind they raise up in Wisconsin,” said another man.
It was Bart’s turn to strike.
“Got to get a hit,” thought Hodge, as he chose a bat of medium weight.
“He’s using the spit ball, Bart,” said Starbright. “The things are slippery, and you have to hit them square on the nose.”
Bart nodded. It was the first time for the season that the Merries had encountered a pitcher who was master of the new “spit ball.” Wolfers seemed to have it down fine, his control being something beautiful to witness.
As Merry had observed, the Elkton twirler had a head full of brains. Although master of the spit ball, he did not use it constantly. He worked different batters in a variety of ways. His curves were fine, but he had something better than curves, which was control. He seemed able to put the ball exactly where he desired. He studied the batters. While sitting on the bench, he had watched closely to discover the weak spots of every man. If he found a player inclined to strike over a low ball, he kept the ball low on him all the time. If he found a man who was inclined to step toward the plate when striking, he kept the ball close to that man, thus making it almost certain that he would hit it close to his fingers if he hit it at all. On the other hand, if a hitter pulled away from the plate, he used an outcurve, keeping the ball over the outside corner or beyond it. If such a batter hit it, the end of the bat was almost certain to be the point of contact, and there is seldom much force in a hit made in such a manner.
In Wolfers, Merriwell fancied he discerned “big league material.” He believed the man would be “discovered” by some manager and “reserved” before the season closed.
Hodge was grimly determined, but determination did not count for much in the face of Wolfers’ pitching. Bart did his best to “work” the man from Wisconsin, but was finally “worked” himself, being led into putting up a weak pop fly to Rush, the Elkton shortstop.
“Oh, we’ve got ye!” howled one of the local rooters. “You may as well give up.”
“We’re not the kuk-kuk-kind that gives up,” growled Gamp, as he strode out with his bat on his shoulder.
In the meantime, Merry was working his arm out slowly, taking care not to twist his weak left ankle.
It was no easy matter to pitch without putting a big strain on that ankle. He could not throw himself back and balance on one foot, for when he came down it jarred his ankle, and, therefore, he was unable to put the force of his body into his delivery.
Merry had long ago learned to make his body and back muscles do much of the work in throwing a swift ball. This was done with the body swing, as it is called. He actually made his body do at least two-thirds of the work, thus sparing his arm.
Young and inexperienced pitchers seldom use this body swing properly, and, therefore, they strain their arms unnecessarily. Sometimes they stand on both feet and throw with all the force of their biceps in order to get speed. In this manner they bring a fearful strain on their arms, and many a promising chap has ruined his wing just as he was beginning to develop into a real pitcher.
Merry had discovered the secret of the body swing in his college days, and for this reason he had withstood the strain of much pitching and steadily grown better from year to year.
When ready to deliver the ball, he swung his body backward as his arm was drawn up. On securing the proper poise, he came forward with the full weight and force of his body, at the same time making the delivery. Often his arm did little except to guide the ball, speed being secured by the great force of the back and shoulder muscles.
Frank was not a “wind-up” pitcher. He resorted to no windmill movements, yet he used the force of his back and shoulder muscles in almost every delivery. In doing so, he threw himself forward with force onto his left foot, and he now discovered that this would be impossible without great risk in regard to his ankle. He was compelled to stand up straight and pitch without the swing. As this was not his usual custom, he quickly discovered it interfered with his control. He could not, as he usually did, put a ball where he desired.
This surprised and annoyed Merry, for it was his custom when runners were on bases to cut out much of the body swing. Often he would snap the ball to the plate before the runner was aware that he meant to deliver it, thus preventing the man from getting a start to steal.
In a very short time he realized that he was in poor condition to do effective work against good hitters; but Morgan had said that it would ruin his arm to pitch any more, and so Frank was determined to go in and do his best.
Wolfers worked Gamp as he had worked Starbright and Hodge, finally striking the lanky chap out.
“Now,” cried a spectator, “we’ll see them hammer the head off the great and only Merriwell.”
Hodge knew Merry’s ankle was in poor condition, but he was not aware of Frank’s trouble in securing control of the ball. Therefore he was satisfied when he donned the body protector and mask that there would be a great and immediate change in the run of the game. He doubted not that Merriwell would check the run getting of the enemy.
Cronin, the lank and lively third baseman of the Elks, was the first batter to face Frank.
Merry knew Cronin was a great sacrifice hitter, his position being second on the batting list.
Still the man had shown that he could hit out beautifully when occasion demanded, and, with no one ahead of him on the bags, he would be sure to try for a hit or a pass.
This man’s only weakness was a high ball, close to the shoulder; and sometimes he could hit those safely.
Frank’s first ball was handsomely placed and cleanly missed.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah!” called the umpire.
“Hit id vere id missed you!” yelled Dunnerwurst, from the field.
“That’s the place, Merry,” laughed Hodge, all the clouds gone from his face. “It’s so easy!”
“Verily it is a thing of great delight,” murmured Jack Ready.
“How can he hit them when he can’t see them?” rumbled Bruce Browning.
Dade Morgan, sitting on the bench, his left hand clasping his right arm above the elbow, smiled and nodded with satisfaction.
“Merry will save the game,” he muttered to himself.
“He’s a snap, Billy,” called Rush, the Elkton shortstop. “Let those whisker trimmers go.”
Cronin nodded and winked. He was satisfied that he would have no trouble in getting what he wanted off Frank.
As for Merry, he was agreeably surprised by his success in placing the first ball.
“If I can only keep that up!” he thought.
His next ball was lower, but still close.
Cronin let it pass.
“Ba-a-a-all—ah!” came from the umpire.
“He’s got to put it over, Billy,” chirped Rush.
Hodge snapped the ball back to Frank, who instantly returned it.
Cronin was caught napping and did not try to hit.
It cut the plate in halves.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah two!”
“Come, come, Mr. Batter!” yelled one of the spectators; “smoke up! You’re in a trance.”
“It surely is a thing of exceeding great delight,” again murmured Ready.
Cronin was somewhat disgusted. He was not, as a rule, the sort of chap to be caught in such a manner, and it made him sore. His face flushed and his eyes glinted. He gripped his bat and stood ready for anything.
Frank tried an outcurve, causing it to sweep outside the plate.
Cronin grinned derisively and let it pass.
“Ba-a-a-all—ah!”
“Even with him, Merry,” said Hodge. “Put the next one right over. Let him hit it a mile—if he can.”
At the same time he called for a drop.
Frank had abandoned the practice of shaking his head when about to pitch a ball different from the one called for. Instead, he assumed a position that plainly told Hodge he would use a rise or a very high ball.
It proved too high, and Cronin did not move his bat.
“Ba-a-a-all—ah three!” announced the umpire.
“Got him in a hole, Billy!” chuckled Rush. “Now he’s got to put ’er over.”
Merry had no intention of putting the next one straight over. It was his object to keep it shoulder high and on the inside corner. This time, however, he did not gauge it accurately, and, to his dismay, he did put it over the middle of the pan and a trifle lower than the batter’s shoulder.
“Just what the doctor ordered!” cried Rush, as Cronin hit the ball.
It was a clean drive to left field, and, by swift running, Cronin succeeded in reaching second before the ball could be fielded in.
“Why, how easy he is!” laughed Rush. “Put it over the fence, Sparks.”
Sparks, the centre fielder of the Elks, was the next batter.
Although Merry was greatly displeased with himself, he did not betray it. He knew it was the easiest thing in the world for a disappointed pitcher to take the spirit out of an entire team.
Hodge was cheerful.
“Accidents will happen, Merry,” he said. “Never mind that.”
Apparently Frank did not mind.
“I’ll have to try the double shoot for a strike-out ball,” he mentally decided.
Sparks expected to find Frank easy.
“It’s a shame to do it,” he declared. “I’m afraid you’ll loss your reputation to-day, my boy.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” said Frank, with perfect good nature.
“Oh, I’m not worrying. Still I’m sorry for you. It can’t be helped, you know. We can’t afford to let you youngsters have this game. The whole Central League would laugh at us.”
The Elks had discovered that Hodge was a beautiful thrower to the bags, and it was not difficult to hold Cronin close to second, although he took sufficient lead to go to third on a sacrifice or any sort of a scratch hit.
Cronin was a fast runner, and Frank knew he might score on a clean single.
Merry worked carefully. Finally, with two strikes and three balls called, he ventured to try the double shoot.
Sparks was fooled handsomely and missed.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah! You’re out!” said the umpire.
“Now you’re doing it, Merry!” nodded Hodge.
But Frank had hurt his ankle with that final delivery, and he limped about the pitching plate a few moments.
“Can’t use the double shoot unless I’m willing to go onto the shelf,” he decided. “It’s out of the question.”
He felt now that it was necessary for him to win the game without resorting to his most effective curve.
“Try it on me,” invited Rush, the talkative, as he danced out to the plate.
“I’d like to,” thought Frank. “You’re one fellow I’d enjoy striking out.”
“Get after him, Rushie!” urged an Elktonite. “You say he’s easy. Now prove it.”
Rush made no retort to this, but he hit the second ball pitched. The ball was driven straight at Badger, who was playing at short.
Buck felt sure of it, and Cronin did not try to take third, although he was ready to move to draw a return throw if the stocky young Kansan whistled the sphere over to first.
Just before the ball reached Badger it struck a small pebble and was deflected. Buck managed to cuff it with his glove, but did not get hold of it. It rolled toward second. Badger went after it, Cronin being forced back to the bag.
Merry took in everything quickly, seeing that it would be dangerous for the Kansan to attempt a throw to first. It was extremely doubtful if Rush, a fast runner, could be caught, and a bad throw would let Cronin reach third, to say nothing of the possibility that it might permit him to score.
Therefore Frank shouted for Buck to hold the ball.
“Well! well! well!” laughed Rush, as he crossed the initial sack. “This is too much!”
“It is,” agreed Browning. “You should have been out.”
Badger was dismayed, but he did not receive a calldown from Frank. Nevertheless, Merry regretted that he had not placed Morgan at short after taking him out of the box. Buck was playing out of his regular position, while Morgan could cover shortstop’s territory in a most beautiful manner.
It was too late now, however; Morgan had been retired. Badger was the only man for the position, Stretcher having left the team at Ashport to return to his home in Missouri.
Jack Lawrence, the manager of the Elks, was pleased by the prospect of victory. On hearing that the Elks would play with the Merries, the managers of other teams in the league had given Lawrence the laugh, all of them saying his great aggregation would be downed by the visitors. Lawrence was anxious to win the game.
Glade, the right fielder of the Elks, was the next man to hit. That is, he was the next man in order on the batting list. He did not try to hit, for it was not necessary. Merriwell’s control was poor, and he could not find the plate. Two balls were called. Then came a strike, although, if anything, the umpire favored Frank.
“He can’t find the pan again,” yelled a coacher.
It seemed that he was right, for the next one pitched was a ball—and the next.
Glade was sent to first.
The bags were filled, with only one out.
Well might the Elks and the Elkton crowd be confident and jubilant.
Things were coming their way.
The local team had played an uphill game, and victory seemed in sight.
Frank was in a tight box.
Tinker, the next batter, was no slouch with the stick. He had a reputation for making hits when they were badly needed.
Behind the wires of his mask, the face of Bart Hodge looked grim and a trifle worried.
Hodge knew now that Merry was in anything but good form. He realized that the game might go against them, and no one disliked to lose a game more than did Bart, the bulldog. Especially hard was it to lose after seeming to have victory within reach.
But Hodge did not have a thought of giving up.
“Line it out, Tink!” urged Rush. “We’ve quit fooling. Give us some runs.”
Tinker looked harmless enough. He was an awkward chap with a half-foolish face. Apparently he did not waste much of his time in thinking real thoughts.
Merry knew the fellow was not nearly as foolish as he appeared. So Frank worked carefully with the batter, using a change of pace, but making no further effort to throw the double shoot.
Finally Tinker put up a foul.
Hodge went after it, although the spectators yelled derisively, thinking he could not touch it.
In some manner the catcher stretched himself amazingly and got the ball on the end of his big mitt as it was falling to the ground.
It bounded off.
On the dead run, Bart caught it a second time.
And held it.
After a moment of silence, the spectators applauded. The people of Elkton were generous enough to recognize a good play, whether made by one of their own team or by an opponent.
“Hard luck, Tink!” cried Rush. “That catcher ought to be decorated with horseshoes.”
“Clever, Bart,” smiled Merry approvingly.
“Only one more man this inning, Frank,” said Bart.
Could Merriwell “get” the next batter?
The situation was one to work up the spectators, who felt that it would be shameful to have their new team, on which they had spent so much money, defeated by the visitors.
“A pall nefer couldt catch dot Part Hodge!” shouted Hans Dunnerwurst joyously.
Sitting on the bench, Wolfers growled a little to the manager of the team.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Why don’t they hit some? I can’t win the game if they don’t hit. I’ll hold those kids down all right, but the rest of the team must bat a little.”
“A hit right now will win the game,” asserted Lawrence.
“But Tink was the man to make the hit. If he had lifted a long one to the field it would have been something. Cronin could have scored on it, even if it had been caught.”
“Cross will have to turn the trick.”
“He ought to,” nodded Wolfers. “That pitcher is pie. He’s pie, I say. Don’t see how he ever got such a reputation.”
“He has a lame ankle to-day.”
“Don’t you think it! That’s a bluff. He was afraid to pitch against us, and so he put up that squeal about a lame ankle.”
“But the rest of his players say his ankle is lame.”
“He gets round on it all right, don’t he?”
“He limps.”
“Well, a lame ankle isn’t much beside a lame wing. Hey, there, Lem, what are you doing?”
Cross had reached for a wide one. He shook his head and settled his feet into position.
“He’s trying for the fence,” said Wolfers. “Better stop him.”
Instantly Lawrence rapped on the bench in a manner that caused Cross to give him a look. The manager signaled for the batter to attempt to single.
“Oh, it’s easy!” growled Cross.
Lawrence persisted.
A moment later the batter hit a ball that struck the ground and rolled slowly toward Frank.
Merry sprang forward, but as he sought to pick the ball up his weak ankle seemed to melt beneath him, and he went down onto one knee. He secured the ball, however, and snapped it instantly to Hodge, who was standing on the plate.
Bart promptly whistled the ball to Browning, although it was not necessary, Cronin having been forced.
The local team had failed to secure a run in the eighth, after having everything in its favor.
The crowd was keenly disappointed.
Frank was relieved and his players were delighted.
Now came the ninth inning.
“Vrankie, you vos a pird!” said Hans Dunnerwurst, as he waddled in to the bench. “I nefer expectorated you couldt pitch a pall by your lame ankle much; but you dooded der trick mit a greadt deal of satisfactoriness. Yah!”
“I didn’t do it, Hans,” confessed Merry. “It was a case of good luck.”
“Don’d let me toldt you dot!” exploded the Dutchman. “You don’d pelief me!”
Frank had limped to the bench.
“How is the ankle?” anxiously asked Morgan.
“Oh, I think I’ll get through another inning with it.”
“I’m sorry I was not able to stay in; but you see how much better you did.”
“Which was luck, just as I told Hans.”
“I can’t see it that way. You made Cross roll that weak one to you.”
“Perhaps it looked that way,” said Merriwell; “but I want to whisper in your ear that I thought all the time that he was likely to lift out a two-bagger or something of the sort.”
“You’re too modest, Merry.”
“It’s not modesty, Dade; I’m simply telling you the truth. Let the rest of the boys think what they please.”
“Let them get some runs this inning and we’ll carry off this game,” said Dade. “I feel it in my bones. All we need is one run. That will do the trick.”
Browning was the first man up. The big fellow did not try for a long hit. He made an effort to drop the ball over the infield; but Rush covered ground swiftly and made a handsome catch.
“Too bad, Bruce,” said Frank, as Browning returned to the bench. “With a poorer shortstop out there, you would have had a safe one.”
“It’s rotten!” growled the big fellow, in disgust. “We want this game! We can’t lose it! We’ve got to have it! These fellows are too conceited. They call us kids! If we’re kids, I wonder where they can find their men!”
“This game vill vin us,” asserted Dunnerwurst. “Id can’t lose us.”
“Oh, go on!” blurted Bruce. “You’ll find it’s easy enough to lose this game. You think we can defeat anything, just because we’ve had good success thus far. I suppose you have an idea in your head that there are no teams in the country that can down us?”
“Oh, I don’d know apout dot!” admitted Hans. “Some uf der big league teams mighdt us down; but der Chicagos dit not dood id in California.”
Rattleton was the next man to face Wolfers. The local pitcher grinned a bit, for Harry had not even touched the ball during the game.
Wolfers regarded Rattles with supreme contempt, which led him into carelessness, and the first thing he knew Harry cracked out a daisy cutter and capered down to the initial sack.
“Dot peen der kindt!” yelled Hans, seizing a bat. “Now we vin der game alretty! Der pall vill knock me vor a dree-pagger righdt avay soon. Holdt yourseluf readiness indo to come home, Harry.”
“Oh, go ahead!” snapped Wolfers. “Stand up to the plate and let me strike you out. You talk too much with your face.”
“You couldn’d struck me oudt a year indo!” retorted Hans. “Shust vatch und see me put der fence ofer der pall. I vill dood id! Yah!”
He swiped wildly at the first ball and missed by at least a foot.
Wolfers chuckled.
“Oh, yes, you’ll put it over the fence!” he sneered. “It’s easy for you to do that.”
“Sure id vos easiness vor dot to do me,” said Hans. “Nexdt dime I vill hit id vere you missed id dot dime.”
The Elkton twirler kept Rattleton close to first.
Harry dared not try to steal unless he could secure a good lead, for Sprowl was a beautiful thrower to second.
After wasting one, Wolfers used the spit ball. It came from his hand with great speed and “broke” handsomely at exactly the proper point, taking a sharp jump.
Dunnerwurst tried to hit it.
Again he missed by at least a foot.
“Why don’t you drive it over the fence?” laughed the Wonder from Wisconsin.
“Sdop vetting der pall all ofer und I vill dood id,” asserted Hans. “Uf der ball hit me, id vos such a slipperiness dot id vould der bat pop off a foul for. Yah!”
“Oh, I can toss you one and you can’t hit it.”
“I vish I thought id!”
“Well, here goes.”
Wolfers actually tossed the Dutchman one.
Hans basted it full and fair on the trade-mark!
“Yow!” he whooped, as he dropped his bat and started for first.
But he stopped short, for the ball had landed in the hands of Tinker, where it stuck.
Tinker snapped it to first to catch Rattleton.
Had the throw been accurate Harry would have been caught, but Cross was compelled to jump for it. He muffed it, giving Rattleton time to get back to the bag.
“Wouldn’t dot jar you!” half sobbed Hans, as he turned toward the bench. “I had dot pall labeled dree pags vor.”
“Oh, give up! give up!” laughed Wolfers. “You’re beaten.”
“It is my hour of glory,” said Ready, as he picked out a slugger and sauntered toward the plate.
“You’ll be a snap,” said the Elkton pitcher.
“Don’d you pelief him!” cried Hans. “Der pall can hit you easy. You vill a three-pagger get.”
“A safe hit wins this game,” declared Jack. “Merry follows me, and he will promulgate the ball out of the lot.”
“You’ll get no safe hit off me,” asserted Wolfers.
He was mistaken. Ready did not try to “kill” the ball. He took a short hold on his bat and drove a clean hit out between first and second.
Rattleton stretched his legs and raced to third, while Ready took first.
Wolfers was disturbed.
“Here’s where de Merries win der game!” yelled a small boy. “Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter hit, an’ he always does de trick.”
Instantly a dozen of his companions turned on him.
“What’s der matter with you, Spud Bailey?” snarled a big chap, with red hair and plenty of freckles. “Wolfers will strike him out!”
“Bet you two hundred t’ousan’ dollars he don’t!” hotly retorted Spud. “Dey never strike dat boy out!”
“Bet your small change,” advised Freckles. “How do you know so much?”
“I’ve read about Frank Merriwell. Wot’s der matter with you! You’re a back number!”
“You’ll think you’re a back number arter you see wot Wolfers does ter him.”
“Will I?”
“Yes, yer will!”
“Naw, I won’t!”
“Yes, yer will!”
“Naw, I won’t!”
By this time they had their fists clenched and their noses close together, while they were glaring into each other’s eyes.
“Say,” said Freckles, “arter ther game I’ll give you all that’s comin’ ter ye!”
“You try it! I ain’t skeered of you!”
“Stop that an’ watch ther game,” said another boy, butting between them. “A hit will do ther trick fer them fellers now.”
“Wolfers won’t let him hit,” asserted Freckles.
“He can’t help it,” declared Spud. “Don’t you never read no papers? Don’t you know northing about Frank Merriwell? He’s the greatest baseball player in the country.”
“Guess ag’in,” advised Freckles.
Frank fouled the first ball pitched.
“Wot’d I tell yer?” shouted Freckles.
“He bit a piece outer it,” said Spud.
“He’ll have ter do better’n dat.”
“He will, all right, all right.”
Needless to say that Merry’s players were anxious. On third Rattleton crouched, ready to dash home on any sort of a hit. Ready played off first. He was tempted to go down before getting a signal from Frank. After that foul, Merry signaled. On the next ball pitched Jack scooted for second.
Sprowl made a fake motion as if he meant to throw to second, but snapped the ball to third.
Ready had slackened speed, intending to be caught between first and second if Sprowl threw to Tinker. Merry had signaled for Jack to work this trick in order to give Rattleton an opportunity to try to steal home.
The Elks declined to step into the trap.
Rattleton was compelled to plunge back to third.
“It’s all right now,” asserted Spud Bailey. “Frank Merriwell will drive in two runs, an’ he may make a homer.”
“You make me sick!” sneered Freckles. “I don’t berlieve he ever got a hit in his life.”
“You’ll see! You’ll see!”
Merry refused to bite at Wolfers’ “teasers,” but he missed one that was over the inside corner.
A moment later the third ball was called.
With two strikes and three balls declared, every one seemed to feel that the critical point of the game had been reached.
The next ball pitched might settle the contest.
Could Merriwell make a safe hit? That was the question.
“It wouldn’t surprise me to see him lift it over the fence,” muttered Bart Hodge.
Wolfers delivered the ball.
Frank struck!
And missed!
Plunk!—the ball landed in Sprowl’s mitt.
“You’re out!” yelled the umpire.
Frank had struck out!
His comrades on the bench seemed completely dazed.
Freckles gave Spud a jab in the stomach, whooping with delight:
“What’d I tell yer? Oh, you’re a knowin’ feller, you are! He done a lot, didn’t he!”
Spud made some kind of retort, but the roaring of the delighted crowd drowned his words.
Wolfers was the hero of the moment as he swaggered in toward the local bench.
Hans Dunnerwurst could not believe the evidence of his eyes.
“A misdake has made you,” he muttered, as he stared at the umpire. “Nefer in his life dit der pall strike him oudt.”
“Into the field, boys,” said Frank. “We must hold them down and get another inning. We still have a chance for this game.”
“How could you strike out, Merry!” muttered Bart Hodge. “How could you!”
Frank saw that his companions were badly broken up over what had happened.
His reputation as a safe hitter at critical moments was such that a failure seemed impossible.
“Brace up, fellows!” he sharply commanded. “The score is still tied.”
Morgan was angry.
“What’s the matter with you fellows?” he sharply demanded. “You think a man ought to hit all the time. Keep in the game, and Merry will pull it off the coals.”
The Elks were jubilant. They patted Wolfers on the back and complimented him on his cleverness.
“Get out!” he growled. “It was no trick at all. I can strike him out four times out of five. I know his weak spot.”
“I’ve been told he has no weak spot,” said Billy Cronin.
“That’s rot! He has a weak spot, all right enough. I wish all the others on his team were just as easy.”
“Well, you’ve made yourself solid in this town, anyhow,” said George Rush. “The crowd was frightened. A hit just then might have fixed us.”
“Well, you must jump in and get some runs now,” said the manager. “We may as well wind the game up. The crowd is satisfied, and the town will back this team after to-day.”
“If we ever get a chance at the other teams in this old league we’ll trim them for fair,” grinned Rush. “But I’m afraid we’ll frighten them so they’ll continue to hold us out.”
“They can’t do it,” declared Lawrence. “The Central League can’t run without us. A three-cornered league is rotten, and the other towns must have us. They’ll come to time pretty soon. If we can get games enough, we’ll lose no money while this thing is hanging fire. We’ll make something on the game to-day. It might have hurt us if we’d lost, as I agreed that the winners should take two-thirds of the net receipts. Merriwell made the terms. He’ll have to be satisfied with a third if we carry off the game.”
“We’ll carry it off,” said Sprowl, as he selected a bat. “This inning ought to be enough.”
“Aw, it’ll be enough,” nodded Wolfers. “Go ahead and get first, Chuck. I’ll drive you round. That feller can’t pitch any better than he can bat.”
Wolfers had a very poor opinion of Merriwell’s ability.
Sprowl hit the first ball pitched.
It skimmed along the ground about four feet inside the line to first base.
Browning sprang in front of it, but he did not touch it with his hands, and it went between his legs.
Sprowl turned toward second, but Dunnerwurst had secured the ball, and he dodged back to first.
“You’re a mark, Merriwell,” laughed Wolfers, as he walked out to hit. “How did you ever get a reputation as a pitcher, anyhow?”
Frank was a trifle “touched” by the fellow’s insolence, although he did not betray it.
“Getting a reputation isn’t as difficult as keeping it sometimes, you know,” he said.
“Well, don’t you care. You’re up against the real thing to-day. You might beat dub teams; but it’s different when you have to face the real hot stuff.”
“If I’m able,” thought Merry, “I’m going to strike you out.”
He knew this would not be a simple matter in case Wolfers tried to sacrifice for the purpose of advancing Sprowl; but the conceit and insolence of the fellow made him long to accomplish the feat.
Frank summoned all his power of self-command. He had watched to learn the weak points of the man at bat, and now he commanded himself to be accurate and to do the things he wished.
As a result, he fooled the hitter with the first two balls pitched, Wolfers going after both of them and missing.
As Hodge snapped the ball back to him, Merry decided on the course he would pursue. He knew Wolfers would expect him to “waste” a ball in an attempt to fool him, this being the natural course when two strikes and no balls had been called. Instead of doing so, Frank summoned his speed and control and drove a straight one over the very heart of the plate.
When it was too late, Wolfers realized what Merry had done. He made a weak and tardy swing at the ball, which he did not touch.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah three!” cried the umpire. “You’re out!”
Wolfers flung aside the bat and paused, his hands on his hips, staring at Merry.
“You’re very clever!” he sneered.
“Thank you,” said Merry.
“No thanks needed. Only an amateur would put a straight one over under such circumstances. It’s always impossible to tell what a greenhorn will do.”
Wolfers was sore. He did not like to acknowledge that he had been outwitted, although such was the case.
“Go sit down, Bob,” laughed Kitson, as he walked out to strike. “You missed. Let it go at that.”
Wolfers retired to the bench, feeling very sore.
Frank knew Kitson was reckoned as a clever base getter, for which reason he had been placed at the head of the list. Merry felt that it would be best to force the man to hit, if possible, and this he tried to do.
Now, however, all at once, he had lost control. The batter saw this and waited. As a result, he walked.
“It’s all to the good!” yelled Rush, as he capered on the coaching line. “Get away off! Take a lead! Divorce yourselves from those sacks! Don’t force Chuck, Kit. Remember he’s ahead of you. How easy to win a game like this! It’s a cinch! Move off, you snails! Get a long lead! Let him throw the ball. He’ll throw it wild in a minute. He hasn’t any control. He’s off his feed to-day.”
The spectators began to “root,” hoping to rattle Frank.
Merry took his time. He knew he was in poor condition, yet he was fighting to win the game, if such a thing could be done. For once in his life, he lacked confidence; but this was caused by his lame ankle, which had seriously interfered with his control.
In endeavoring to fool Cronin he put one straight over. It happened that Cronin had not expected it and simply drove a foul down back of first base.
Hodge was shaking a little, for he saw that Merry was in no condition to pitch against good batters.
“Give me another like that,” invited Cronin.
“Once is enough,” smiled Merry. “Why didn’t you take advantage of your opportunity?”
“Oh, well, give me anything. I’ll hit anything you get over the pan.”
In spite of this boast, Frank finally struck Cronin out with a ball close to his shoulder.
Hodge breathed easier.
“Merry will do it,” he thought. “He never fails. It isn’t in him to fail. But I fear he’ll fix his ankle to-day so he’ll take no part in the meet at Ashport.”
Perhaps Bart was the only one who fully realized how much it was costing Frank to pitch that game.
Two men were out now, and two were on bases.
Sparks, the centre fielder of the Elks, advanced to the plate.
“Give it a ride, Sparkie!” implored Rush. “You can do it! You must do it!”
“Hit it! Beef it out!” roared the crowd.
Sparks was eager to comply, for he felt that the game depended on him. He was a fine hitter, although Merry had struck him out in the eighth.
Frank worked carefully, taking all the time permissible. Hodge talked to him soothingly.
“This chap is shaking, Frank,” said Bart. “He remembered what you did to him before. He knows you can do it again. Watch him shake.”
“Shake your grandmother!” growled Sparks.
“It would be shameful to shake an old lady like that,” said Hodge. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Str-r-r-rike—kah two!” called the umpire, as Sparks missed a bender.
“Got him, Merry!” said Hodge confidently. “It’s a ten-inning game.”
“Who told you so much?” grinned Sparks.
“It’s all settled,” declared Bart. “Shut your eyes next time you swing. You’ll do just as well.”
He was trying to bother the batter by talking to him.
Frank attempted to fool Sparks with the next ball pitched. To his dismay, he realized the moment the ball left his hand that it was certain to curve over the plate.
Sparks was watching like a hawk. He saw the ball break and judged it correctly.
A moment later he hit it.
At the crack of ball and bat the spectators seemed to rise as one man. They saw the ball go sailing out on a line, rising higher gradually. It was a long, hard drive, not a rainbow fly.
Sprowl and Kitson capered along over the bags.
Gamp stretched his long legs in an effort to get under the ball. He covered ground with amazing strides.
“All to the mustard!” yelled Rush. “He couldn’t touch it in a thousand years! The game is ours, boys! We had to have it!”
“Get dot pall under, Choe!” squawked Dunnerwurst. “Pick id oudt uf a cloudt! You can dood id!”
Frank was watching with no little anxiety. He knew Joe was a wonderful fielder, and he had seen him make some astonishing catches; but his judgment told him that the chances were decidedly against the long-legged chap.
Gamp knew it, too, and he was trying harder than he had ever tried before in all his life.
“I must get it!” he thought. “I will get it!”
Joe knew the game depended on his success. If he failed, the Elks would be the winners. His heart leaped into his throat. He seemed to find it necessary to set his teeth to keep it from leaping quite out of his mouth.
He saw the ball beginning to fall.
“I must get it! I will!” he repeated.
In his mind he saw what would follow failure. He saw the Elks triumphant, the crowd roaring with joy, his own friends dejected and downcast. He even saw himself walking in from the field, his head hanging, unable to look Frank in the face. He knew how Frank would take it; he knew he would be a good loser.
Across from right field came the wail of Dunnerwurst:
“Get dot pall under, Choe! You can dood id!”
He was doing his level best; it was not in him to do more. He realized at last that he was going to miss the ball by inches—if he missed it.
Oh, that he could cover a little more ground! Oh, that he had wings!
His comrades knew how madly he was trying. They scarcely breathed.
“Good old Joe!” whispered Rattleton. “He can’t fail!”
But there are things beyond human accomplishment. It was possible for Gamp to fail.
He made a last great leap, his hands outstretched.
The ball barely touched the ends of his gloved fingers.
Three inches farther and he might have held it.
He did not catch it, and Elkton had won the game.
As soon as Joe could stop he looked after the ball a moment and then turned to walk in, refusing to chase and recover it.
Roar after roar came from the stand and the bleachers. The crowd was wild with delight. It was the sort of finish to fill them with unutterable joy. They waved their hats, hands, and handkerchiefs in the air. Men howled hoarsely; women added a shriller note to the volume of sound.
For the moment Sparks was the hero; but Wolfers was not forgotten. Down from the bleachers poured the spectators and out onto the field they streamed. They wanted to get near those two great heroes. They packed close about them. They even tried to lift and carry them, but neither man would have it.
“Stop your foolishness!” cried Wolfers sharply. “Didn’t you ever see a game won before?”
“This certainly is a red-hot baseball town!” laughed Sparks.
“It will be red hot after this. The game went just right to please the bunch.”
In all Elkton it seemed that just one inhabitant was downcast. Spud Bailey looked sick. He said not a word when Freckles jumped on him and punched him, crying jubilantly:
“Yah! yah! yah! What do you think about it now? Knew a lot, didn’t ye! Your great Frank Merriwell got his dat time! He jest did!”
Frank Merriwell waited for Gamp. Joe had his eyes on the ground as he came up. Merry took his arm, and they walked in together.
“Dud-don’t touch me!” said Gamp huskily. “I’m a lul-lobster!”
“You made a wonderful run for that ball, Joe,” said Merry. “I didn’t think you could get anywhere near it!”
“Th-three inches mum-mum-more and I’d ha-had it!” groaned the sorrowful fellow. “I lul-lost the gug-game!”
“Nothing of the sort!”
“Yes, I did!”
“I lost it myself. I couldn’t control the ball, and I gave that batter one just where he wanted it.”
“It’s all right for you to sus-say that, Merry; but I didn’t cuc-catch that fly.”
“No fielder could have caught it, and not one in a thousand could have touched it.”
Still Gamp blamed himself.
Hodge had flung aside the mask and body protector. He glared at Joe as the tall fellow came up.
“Why didn’t you get your paws onto that ball?” he snarled.
“I ought to,” said Joe.
“Of course you had! That would——”
“Stop, Bart!” commanded Frank promptly. “You know, as well as I, that Joe came amazingly near getting it.”
“Well, why didn’t he?”
“Because it was beyond human accomplishment. You have no right to speak to him that way. Better take it back.”
Bart muttered something and began overhauling the bats to get hold of his own stick, which he religiously cared for at all times. The sting of defeat was hard to bear.
Merry was not satisfied.
“You know who lost the game, Bart,” he said. “You know I am alone to blame. Don’t try to put the blame onto any one else. Kick at me for my rotten pitching, if you like.”
Hodge said nothing now. He had found his bat, but he glared at the stick as if that were somehow to blame for the misfortune that had befallen them.
Dunnerwurst seemed on the verge of tears, while Rattleton looked sad enough.
The loss of this particular game had depressed the whole team more than anything that had happened on the entire trip.
Finally Hodge turned to Gamp, who was pulling on his sweater.
“I beg your pardon, Joe,” he said sincerely. “I was wrong. I know it. You were not to blame.”
“Yes, I was!” persisted Gamp, willing and ready to shoulder the burden.
“Not a bit of it,” asserted Bart. “It was fate. We had to lose the game. We were all to blame. We couldn’t hit Wolfers! I’d like to try it again!” he savagely ended.
“We’d all like to try it again,” said Browning.
“Can’t we?” eagerly asked Rattleton.
“Let’s!” grunted Badger.
“Get together, fellows,” directed Frank. “We’ll give Elkton a cheer.”
“It’s their place to cheer us first,” objected Hodge.
“Never mind that. We’ll get ahead of them. Open it up good and hearty. Let’s show them that we can lose without crying baby. None of us fancies a baby.”
He gathered them about him and led the cheer, which was hearty enough.
The Elks were taken by surprise. Some of them had started to leave the field. The manager realized he had been outdone in politeness, and he hastened after his players, hustling together those he could assemble. Then they cheered, but it lacked the vigor of the cheer from the Merries.
This little piece of business on the part of the visitors caught the fancy of the crowd. The spectators realized now that Frank and his comrades had made a game fight.
“You’re all right, blue boys!” shouted a man. “You can play the game!”
“That’s right,” agreed another. “You’re dandies, boys!”
Others followed their example. The crowd could afford to be generous. It was perfectly satisfied.
In their hotel at Elkton the boys had one room which was used exclusively as a “dressing room.” In it was kept all the paraphernalia which they carried on the tour.
After the game they hurried silently to the hotel, few words passing on the way.
In the dressing room they were very quiet. Dade Morgan came over to Frank, speaking in a low tone.
“I’m sorry, Merry,” he said simply.
“We can’t win all the games,” answered Frank.
“But this was a hard game to lose.”
“Almost any game is a hard one to lose.”
The defeated players sat around meditatively as they slowly stripped off their playing clothes. Connected with the room there was a bath with a shower. One after another they jumped under the shower, turned on the cold spray, drenched themselves thoroughly, jumped out, rubbed down until glowing, and then dressed.
“That was a great catch you made in the second inning, Hans,” said Browning.
“Oh, I don’d know apout dot,” retorted the Dutchman. “Id peen nottings peside der pall vot caught you ven Chack threw him so high der first innings indo.”
“Say, Badg, you nipped Glade beautifully in the fourth,” said Rattleton. “Hodge made a great throw. Glade thought he had the sack purloined.”
“I noticed you were backing me up all right,” said the Kansan.
“I saw you were going to cover the bag. I was playing too deep to cover it for the throw.”
Starbright slapped Morgan on the shoulder.
“You had ’em guessing, my boy.”
“Rot!” growled Dade. “I’ve got a crockery wing. It went back on me in a pinch. Still I might have stayed in the game. I’m afraid I squealed.”
Then they all sat still some moments. Of a sudden Browning turned on Morgan.
“Why didn’t you cover first when I went off after that foul in the third?” he rumbled, frowning. “We could have made a double play on it.”
“Oh, go on!” retorted Dade. “It wasn’t your ball. Why didn’t you let Hodge have it and stick to the bag? Play your own position and you’ll do better.”
“You made a nice mess in muffing that short throw from Hodge in the seventh!” snarled Rattleton, glaring at Badger. “That let in a run. Why don’t you do your neeping slights—I mean your sleeping nights?”
“Oh, you haven’t anything to say!” fiercely retorted the Kansan. “You muffed the ball when I picked up Tinker’s grounder and snapped it to you.”
“How did I know you was going to snap it underhand that way? You had plenty of time.”
With the exception of Merry, the whole team seemed growling and snarling all at once.
Underneath it all, however, Frank saw the real true spirit that longs for victory. They were not really malicious, but each man was to do his level best and to have every other man do the same.
“We lost the game, fellows, and it’s no use to kick,” said Merry. “I think every man did his best. I know I did. It was poor enough. We’ll have to swallow defeat and go out for the next game we play.”
“It would be different if we could get another crack at these fellows,” muttered Ready, all his usual flippancy gone.
“We’d eat ’em!” roared Badger fiercely.
“You’d have quite a job with that man Wolfers on the pitcher’s plate,” said Merry. “He’s the cleverest twirler we’ve encountered this season.”
“But he knows he’s good,” rumbled Browning. “That’s what’s the matter with him. He keeps boring it into the opposing players.”
“For the purpose of rattling them. That’s a part of his game. A man as clever as he is don’t need to resort to that trick; but Wolfers does it. He learned it in the small leagues and independent teams. He’ll get over it if he gets into fast company.”
“We ought to haf peen fast enough vor him,” said Hans. “Didn’t dot pall hit me righdt indo der handts uf Dinker? I hat id lapeled four pases vor. Id peen roppery for der pall der catch him dot vay.”
Again Hans seemed on the verge of shedding tears.
“Does this end it, Merry?” asked Rattleton. “Can’t we get another game with these fellows?”
“Do you want to play them again?”
“Do I? Ask me!”
“How about the others?”
Every man was on his feet, clamoring for another game.
“We’ll beat them or die trying!” cried Ready. “Do get another game with them, Frank!”
“Do!” echoed all the others.
“But make it far enough off so you can pitch yourself,” said Starbright.
“Oh, I know I didn’t make good, Dick!” snapped Morgan. “No need to rub it in!”
“But you did make good until you pitched your arm off,” said the big, blond chap quickly. “I didn’t mean to cast any stones your way.”
“All right,” said Dade. “I know when I’m outclassed, and Wolfers was too good for me. I had to pitch my arm off after he went into the box.”
“Cutts was something of a cinch!” snickered Badger. “Why didn’t they keep him in? We’d rolled up fifty runs. That’s whatever!”
“Oh, great and mighty chieftain!” cried Ready, his flippant air returning; “we beseech thee to arrange another game with the frisky Elks of Elkton. We wish to wipe out the stain. Give us a chance and see us do a bit of fancy wiping.”
“I’ll do my best, fellows,” promised Frank. “But you know I’ll not be able to pitch for at least three or four more days. I don’t know whether I hurt my ankle much to-day or not. Once or twice I gave it a twist. If I’d put some one else in and let him throw the ball over the pan, it would have been better. But I thought I might save the game. This game may be a bad thing for the Elks. It may frighten the other teams in the league.”
“Go after another game right away, Frank,” urged Bart. “Put it far enough off so your ankle will get strong. We must redeem ourselves.”
The others were just as anxious. Frank found every man on the team was yearning to wipe out the disgrace of defeat, so he agreed to see Jack Lawrence, the manager of the Elks, and try to arrange another game.