Ben Raybold, representative of the Northern Securities Company, was lighting a cigar at the stand in the office of the Antlers Hotel when he heard about the game of baseball that had been played in Elkton that afternoon.
“The Merries?” said he, addressing the cigar clerk. “Do you mean Frank Merriwell’s team?”
“Yes; our boys trimmed those fellows to-day.”
Raybold lifted his eyebrows.
“Do you mean to tell me that a local team defeated Merriwell’s team?”
“Sure thing. I tell you, we’ve got the hottest team in Ohio right here in Elkton.”
“You must have a hot team to beat those fellows. I’ve seen them play. They got away with the Chicagos two out of three games in Los Angeles.”
“Well, I rather think our boys might do better than that,” said the clerk, throwing out his chest.
Raybold smiled a bit.
“Many queer things happen in baseball,” he said. “Your team is not a straight local nine?”
“Oh, no,” was the proud answer. “We’ve got a salaried team. That is,” he hastily added, “three men are on salary. The others are employed in town. One of them is a bell boy here in this hotel.”
The Northern Securities man shook his head in a puzzled manner.
“And such a team got away with Frank Merriwell’s nine?” he said. “I don’t understand it.”
The cigar clerk was touched.
“You don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Elkton has a team that can make any of ’em hustle. You ought to see our pitcher. He’s from Wisconsin. His name is Wolfers. Mark what I’m telling you, he’ll be in one of the big leagues within two years. I think he’s a better man than Cy Young or Chesbro, or any of them fellows. He uses the spit ball, and he can put it just where he wants to, which is better than some of the pitchers can do.”
At this moment Bob Wolfers, accompanied by Jack Lawrence and Seymour Whittaker, a local baseball enthusiast and a man of wealth, entered the hotel.
“Oh, your pitcher may be a good man,” said Raybold, taking his cigar from his mouth and examining it critically: “but you ought to know that Frank Merriwell is, beyond doubt, the cleverest slab artist not gobbled up by one of the two big leagues. The Boston Americans and the New York Nationals both want him.”
“Is that straight, mister?” asked Wolfers, butting in and winking at the cigar clerk.
“Yes, that’s straight.”
“I suppose you know it for a fact?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Well, that fellow wouldn’t last twenty seconds on either the Bostons or the New Yorks. He’s the greatest shine for a pitcher that I ever saw.”
Raybold flushed a bit and chewed at the end of his cigar, while he surveyed Wolfers from head to foot.
“I presume you’re competent to judge?” he said.
“I presume I am.”
“It’s a fine thing for a man to have a high estimation of his ability as a judge. Who are you?”
“My name is Wolfers.”
“Oh-ho! I see! Professional jealousy. A case of sour grapes.”
Wolfers laughed derisively.
“Why should it be a case of sour grapes? Merriwell got his medicine all right to-day.”
“Did you ever get bumped?”
“What has that got to do with it? All pitchers get hit occasionally.”
“That’s right; and, therefore, I claim that you can’t judge Merriwell’s ability by one game. Probably it will be different in the next game.”
“There will be no next game,” said the manager.
“How is that?”
“One game wound us up with those chaps.”
“Don’t you dare play them another?”
“Dare? Ha! ha! ha! That’s a joke! Look here, my friend, there’s nothing we’re afraid to hitch up with.”
“Then why don’t you give them another chance at you?”
“Because we have games arranged for the rest of this week, and we expect to be playing in the league again by the first of next week. We can’t bother with small fry. We play out of town to-morrow and next day, and the Cuban Giants meet us here Saturday.”
“I like the way you talk about small fry!” exclaimed Raybold, the tone of his voice indicating that he did not like it.
“Besides,” said Lawrence, “I don’t fancy Merriwell or any of his crowd want to tackle us again.”
“That’s where you make a mistake,” said a quiet voice, as Frank entered the office, limping the least bit. “We’re very anxious to get another game with you, Mr. Lawrence. We think we might reverse the result of to-day.”
Raybold’s eyes twinkled. He recognized Frank at once, but, having never met him, he did not speak. Lawrence shrugged his shoulders.
“It seems to me you ought to be satisfied, Merriwell,” he said. “You got your bumps to-day, didn’t you?”
“You certainly hit me enough,” confessed Frank.
“Still you are anxious for more. Some people never know when they’ve got enough.”
This kind of talk was most annoying, but Merriwell had perfect self-control.
“That’s right,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps I’m one of that kind.”
“Well, out of pity for you, we shouldn’t think of making another game with you, even if we had the opportunity.”
“Look here,” chipped in Raybold, a trifle warmly, “I believe you’re troubled with cold feet. That’s what’s the matter! You’re so pleased over this victory that you want to boast about it.”
This angered Lawrence, who declared that it was nothing to boast about and made a great deal of talk to that effect. When he had finished, Raybold said:
“I’ll wager a hundred dollars even with any man that you can’t defeat Merriwell’s team in another game.”
Seymour Whittaker pricked up his ears.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Your money would feel good in my pocket.”
“Do you take my bet?”
Lawrence turned quickly to Whittaker.
“No use to bet,” he said. “We can’t give them another game. They’ll have to swallow their defeat and make the best of it.”
“The best of it, or the worst of it,” laughed Wolfers. “Too bad they feel so sore. They were outclassed, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry I can’t win that hundred off you, sir,” said Whittaker to Raybold. “It would be easy money for me.”
Lawrence then inquired if Sprowl was in his room at the hotel, and, being told at the desk that he was, he proceeded upstairs, followed by Wolfers and Whittaker.
“It’s unfortunate that these fellows will give you no chance to get even, Mr. Merriwell,” said Raybold. “They must be afraid of you.”
“I hardly think that,” said Merry. “The game to-day could not have frightened them, although it was close until the finish of the ninth inning. They have perfect confidence in themselves. As you are a stranger, it was a surprise to me when you offered to back us in that manner.”
“Oh, we’ve never met, but I’ve seen you pitch. I was out West a short time ago. Have you the same team you had in California and Colorado?”
“Just the same, except that we’re one substitute short. Stretcher has gone home.”
“How did you happen to lose to-day? Was it bad fielding behind you?”
“No, sir. In the ninth I failed to make a hit, with two men on the bags. On the other hand, when their turn came, they did get the hit needed, likewise having two men on the sacks. That’s about how it happened.”
In this manner Frank shouldered the burden. He made no reference to his lame ankle, nor did he explain that he had entered the box after Morgan’s arm gave out.
“That was hard luck!” exclaimed Raybold. “Could you beat them to-morrow?”
“No man can predict what will happen in baseball. Look at the poor showing the Boston Americans made at the opening of the season, just when every one expected great things of them. There are no sure things in baseball that is worth being called baseball.”
“Of course we all realize that. Evidently you are not satisfied to leave Elkton without another try at the team here.”
“Hardly satisfied. Quite the contrary.”
“Well, can’t you drive them into giving you a game?”
“I don’t know how. You’ve just heard their manager refuse.”
“Yes, but men frequently change their minds. Keep at him. Give me permission to see what I can do. Will you?”
“Well——”
“Of course I mean on my own responsibility. I’ll not represent you.”
“I couldn’t think of permitting that, in case you tried to get a game through a wager. I can’t prevent you from betting as much as you choose on your own responsibility.”
“I understand your position. I believe I heard once that betting was against your principles. You seem to have taken a decided stand on that matter. It’s rather peculiar for a young fellow in your position, but I admire you for it. Stick by your principles, say I. I have a theory that it is wrong for a man to do anything he believes to be wrong. Another man may not consider it wrong, and, therefore, for him it may be all right.”
“That’s a dangerous doctrine to preach, as it’s likely to be misunderstood. I have no doubt but there are men who do not consider it wrong to lie or cheat; but——”
“Oh, beyond a certain limit my theory does not apply. It applies to some mooted questions. Lying and cheating are things no man can make right by thinking or pretending to think they are right. But you know some strait-laced persons believe attending the theatre on Sunday is wrong. For them it is wrong. I see no harm in it. I feel that it frequently does me good. For me it is all right.”
“How about playing cards on Sunday?”
“I see no harm in it. Do you?”
“Yes,” answered Frank honestly. “Even if I did not think it harmed me, I would not do it on account of the example I might be placing before others. A man has to consider that.”
“If he considers everything of that sort, he’ll find himself robbed of much of the pleasure in this life.”
“A man can have plenty of pleasure without resorting to license. This life can be enjoyed in a good, healthy way, and the person who takes care not to set a bad example for others enjoys it more than one who is careless and indifferent. I do not believe any young man of my years ever enjoyed life more than I; yet I have been conscientious in many things on account of the example I might be setting before others. It is possible I might drink without harming myself, but I know there are fellows on my baseball team who could not drink without doing themselves serious injury. If I drank, several of them might drink. Could I be contented and undisturbed if I saw them forming the habit through following in my footsteps?”
“Well, you put up a great argument, and you’ve given me something new to think about. Just the same, if I can drive Elkton into playing another game with you through betting that you’ll defeat them, I am going to do it. The sandy gentleman was inclined to snap up the hundred I offered. He must have some influence in baseball circles. I propose to keep after him. Leave it to me. On what terms did you play to-day?”
“Two-thirds of the net gate money went to the winners.”
“Good crowd?”
“Fine.”
“Your share will pay your bills?”
“It ought to.”
“Well, if you can get two-thirds in the next game, even if you have to wait several days before you play, you may not lose anything.”
“I’m willing to wait and lose money if I can get the game.”
Raybold found another opportunity that evening to make some betting talk to Seymour Whittaker.
Whittaker professed a strong desire to wager money on the Elks, but said he could not, as Lawrence would not consider making another game with the Merries.
“Are you one of the directors of the team?” asked Raybold.
“Yes, sir.”
“It seems that you might have some influence with him.”
“Not enough to cause him to change his mind. He’s very set. It’s a good thing for you. I’d feel like a robber after taking your money.”
“Would you, indeed?” laughed Raybold. “Well, see here, my dear man, I’ll give you a perfect snap. I’ll wager two hundred to one hundred that you cannot defeat the Merries again, the game to be played here any time next week, with a fair and impartial umpire.”
“Why don’t you give me your money!” cried Whittaker. “You might as well.”
“What do you say? Two hundred to one hundred.”
“No use. It can’t be done, and you’re in luck.”
“When does your local paper appear?”
“Thursday.”
“I’m going to insert a notice in the paper to the effect that the Elkton team does not dare give Merriwell another chance.”
“Don’t be so foolish!”
“Look the paper over when it comes out,” said Raybold. “You’ll find the notice.”
Raybold was in earnest. He really did insert a notice in the local paper, paying advertising rates for the privilege. This notice was sarcastically worded and reflected on the courage of the local team in refusing to give the Merries another game. It called attention to the fact that the Merries had on their tour defeated far better known and much stronger teams than the Elks, while it further stated that no team could draw such a crowd, all of Elkton being desirous of witnessing another “go” with the visitors who had given the locals such a tussle the first time.
There was something about this notice that aroused the pride and indignation of the Elktonites. The village hummed over it. The citizens began to tell one another that the Elks must give Frank Merriwell’s team another chance.
The Elks were playing in another town, but Lawrence was called up on the phone by two or three persons who asked him why he did not play the Merries again.
Frank had not known Raybold intended to insert the notice. After the notice appeared Merry kept still and awaited results.
He had lingered in Elkton with his team, hoping another game could be secured.
Seymour Whittaker was indignant. He looked around for Raybold and demanded to know why the people of Elkton had been insulted. Raybold laughed and said no insult was intended. Whittaker insisted that the newspaper notice plainly insinuated that the Elktonites were afraid their team would be beaten if it met the Merries again.
“It looks that way to me,” said Raybold.
“You know we’re not afraid.”
“Prove it.”
“We will!” cried Whittaker. “I’ll have the directors of the team get together. They can instruct Lawrence to arrange for the game. Then I presume you’ll squeal on that betting talk you’ve made.”
“Hardly.”
“Put your money up now, then.”
“All right.”
“Two hundred to one.”
“That’s what I offered. If the game is not played, the bet is off.”
They went out and found a stakeholder. The money was put up.
On Saturday the Elks returned home and the famous Cuban Giants appeared to play them.
The Cuban Giants is one of the strongest colored teams in the country, and the people of Elkton believed the real test of the locals would come in the game with the Giants.
Merry knew the directors of the team had held a meeting for the purpose of considering the advisability of playing again with his team, but he could learn nothing as to the result of that meeting.
Somehow, after returning to Elkton, Lawrence kept away from Frank, who saw him for the first time Saturday on the baseball field just before the beginning of the game with the Giants.
In the presence of the assembled spectators, Frank walked out to the bench and spoke to the Elkton manager, asking if he had decided to give him another game.
“Merriwell,” said Lawrence disagreeably, “I never saw a fellow so persistent in seeking a second drubbing. We’ll play you Monday, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“The winning team shall take all the gate money.”
“Agreed!” said Frank, with a promptness that surprised Lawrence. “It’s settled!”
“You won’t get a dollar.”
“Don’t worry about me. Will you announce the game here to-day? It will be the best sort of an advertisement.”
“Yes, I’ll announce it.”
As Frank walked away, Lawrence turned to Wolfers, chuckling:
“Didn’t I work that cleverly? The directors instructed me to give him another game. I’d had to have done so on an even break, fifty per cent. to each team, if he had insisted; but I kept away from him and made him so eager he was willing to take terms of any sort. We’ll get all the boodle.”
Cutts went in to pitch the game, and for five innings he had the heavy-hitting colored boys at his mercy. In the sixth inning he went to pieces and gave the Giants five base bits, which netted three runs.
At that time the Elks had five scores.
Wolfers warmed up at once.
He was greeted with tumultuous cheers when he walked out to pitch at the beginning of the sixth.
The colored boys were stayers. They laughed heartily over the applause given Wolfers.
“We’ll put him into the stable quicker than we did the other fellow,” said the captain of the Giants. “Get right after him, boys. Knock his eye out. He’s a man with a swelled head. You can see it in the way he walks.”
But when Wolfers struck out the first three batters to face him, pitching only eleven balls, they began to realize that they were up against a wizard.
The joy of the spectators was boundless. The man from Wisconsin was cheered madly as he struck out the third man.
“That’s all right,” declared one of the Giants. “We’ll fall on his neck next inning.”
“Oh, yes you will!” derisively roared a big man. “You’ll fall on his neck—I don’t think!”
Lawrence seized the opportunity as a favorable one to make an announcement. Walking out to the home plate, he held up his hand for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “I wish to inform you that there will be another game here in Elkton Monday afternoon at the usual hour.”
“Hooray!” bellowed the big man. “I’ll quit work to come! You can’t give us too much of this kind of baseball!”
“It seems,” said the manager of the Elks, smiling, “that some baseball players are greedy to be trimmed. They don’t know when they have enough. Our first game with Frank Merriwell’s Athletic Team resulted in a victory for us. The Merries were not satisfied. Mr. Merriwell has boned us into giving him another game. We intend to give him all he wants. I understand that Merriwell himself will pitch for his team. Bob Wolfers will do the pitching for us, and——”
What a yell went up!
“Oh, that’s a shame!” howled the big man, as the uproar subsided somewhat. “Why don’t you give them a chance? It isn’t fair!”
“We propose to show you just what kind of a game we can put up with Wolfers in the box,” said Lawrence. “We promise you your money’s worth. Don’t miss it.”
“We won’t!” they cried.
Following was the batting order when the Merries again faced the Elks:
MERRIES. ELKS.
Ready, 3d b. Kitson, rf.
Morgan, ss. Cronin, 3d b.
Badger, lf. Sparks, cf.
Merriwell, p. Rush, ss.
Hodge, c. Glade, rf.
Gamp, cf. Tinker, 2d b.
Browning, 1st b. Cross, 1st b.
Rattleton, 2d b. Sprowl, c.
Dunnerwurst, rf. Wolfers, p.
The Elks fancied they would have an easy thing with Wolfers in the box. Still they were anxious to get a safe lead early in the game, and Lawrence urged them to “jump on” Merriwell without delay.
Of course the Merries were sent to bat first, as this gave the locals their last opportunity.
Wolfers was chewing gum and grinning when he went into the box. He looked more than ever like a wolf, yet he seemed to be very good-natured. The crowd cheered him and he touched his cap in acknowledgment.
“Good old Bobby!” howled the same big man who had made himself heard so often at the game with the Cuban Giants. “You’re the boy! This will be a picnic for you.”
The usual gathering of small boys was to be seen. Spud Bailey was on hand, and he seemed to be an object of much ridicule.
“Oh, you know er lot erbout baseball!” sneered Freckles, while all the others laughed. “Mebbe you’ve got it inter dat nut of yourn that them Merriwell fellers will win dis game?”
“I has,” acknowledged Spud defiantly.
They jeered him.
“You don’t know ernough ter come in w’en it rains,” said Freckles.
“You’ll know more arter ther game. Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter pitch ther whole of this one.”
“Dey’ll pound him outer der box inside of t’ree innin’s.”
“I know a man dat’s bet two hundrud dollars ter one hundred dat the Merriwells will win.”
“He’s a bigger fool dan you are! W’y didn’t he go burn his money. He’d had more fun wid it.”
But Spud was unmoved.
“You wait,” he muttered. “You’ll see.”
Never in their careers had the members of Merriwell’s team been more determined to win, if possible. All levity was cut out of the early part of the game. They went at it seriously, earnestly, with heart and soul.
Ready cast aside his flippancy and did his level best to start things off with a hit. The best he could do was to drive a grounder into the hands of Cronin, who whistled it across to Cross for an easy out.
Wolfers continued to grin, although he had anticipated, beginning by showing his ability to strike a man out when he desired.
Morgan fouled several times, finally striking out on a “spit ball,” which took a wonderfully sharp jump to one side as he swung, nearly getting away from Sprowl.
“That’s the kind, Bob, old socks!” cried the catcher. “They never can hit those.”
Badger popped a little one into the air, and the first three batters to face the wonder from Wisconsin were his victims.
“Now get right after Merriwell, boys,” urged Lawrence, as his players reached the bench. “Clinch the game at the start, and then take it easy. Put us into it, Kit.”
Merriwell did not limp as he walked out. His ankle was tightly supported with a broad leather band. In warming up he had found that his control was perfect. He could put the ball exactly where he pleased, and he felt that on this day he would be in his best form. He also felt that he would need all his skill.
Kitson laughed.
“Just put one over and see me bump it,” he urged.
Frank looked round to make sure every man was in position.
“We’re all behind you, Merry,” assured Rattleton. “Let him mump it a bile—I mean bump it a mile!”
The first ball pitched looked good to Kitson. It was speedy and quite high.
Just as the batter slashed at it the ball took a sharp rise, or jump, and the bat encountered nothing but empty air.
“Stir-r-r-rike—kah one!” came from the umpire.
Spud Bailey seized the first opportunity to rejoice.
“Why didn’t he hit dat?” he cried.
“Oh, wait, wait!” advised Freckles. “Dere’s plenty of time. He’ll hit der next one he goes after.”
But Freckles was mistaken. The next ball was a wide outdrop, which Kitson let pass. Then came a high ball that changed into a drop and shot down past the batter’s shoulders. He had anticipated a drop, and he tried to hit it, but did not judge it correctly.
“Stir-r-r-rike—kah two!”
Spud didn’t miss his chance to turn on Freckles.
“Shut up!” snapped Freckles. “He’s goin’ ter git a hit!”
Kitson thought so himself. He picked out another that looked good. It was an inshoot, and it spanked into Bart’s big mitt.
“You’re out!” came from the umpire.
Spud Bailey stood on his head, but Freckles viciously kicked him over.
Kitson shook his head as he walked to the bench.
“He fooled me,” he acknowledged. “Still I should have hit ’em.”
“Never mind,” said Cronin. “I’ll start something.”
Ben Raybold was sitting on the bleachers. He smiled the least bit as he saw Merry easily dispose of Kitson.
“He seems to be in his best form,” thought the backer of the visitors. “If so, I’ve won a hundred. I wish I’d made it more.”
The eyes of Bart Hodge were gleaming. He hammered a hole into his big mitt with his fist.
“drop ’em into that pocket, Merry, old boy,” he cried. “You know how to do it.”
“You bet my life he knows how!” cried Dunnerwurst.
“They’re all swelled up over striking you out, Kit,” said Rush.
“It won’t be so easy next time,” declared Kitson. “I’m onto his tricks.”
“Plenty of speed.”
“Oh, yes; but we like speed.”
“Sure. We eat speed. If he keeps burnin’ ’em over, we’ll fall on him pretty soon and pound him to the four winds.”
Merry remembered Cronin’s weakness. He kept the ball close to the fellow, and, having both control and speed, found it just as easy to strike him out.
“Well! well!” cried the big man with the stentorian voice. “What’s the matter, boys?”
“Get a hit, Sparksie,” urged Rush. “I think I can boost you along.”
“Let him give me some of those swift inshoots,” muttered Sparks.
This, however, Merry declined to do. He kept the ball away from Sparks, although starting it straight at him at least twice. His outcurve was wonderfully wide, and it quite bewildered the batter.
Wolfers had ceased to grin. He realized that Merriwell was “showing him up” in the first inning.
“Oh, well,” he muttered, “a strike-out pitcher isn’t the whole cheese.”
Still he was nettled.
Merry was testing himself. Kitson, Cronin, and Sparks were all batters of different styles. To mow them down in succession would be a severe test for any pitcher.
This, however, was what Frank did. Sparks finally succumbed, declining at the finish to strike at a high straight one, and growling because the umpire called it a strike, although it was not above his shoulder.
Spud Bailey was overjoyed.
“Now, now, now!” he cried. “I guess you fellers begin ter see I ain’t such a fool!”
“Oh, he can’t keep dat up,” sneered Freckles. “He’ll go all ter pieces arter one or two innin’s.”
“Bet you anyt’ing he won’t!” flung back Spud. “You ain’t posted about him. He’s der greates’ pitcher in der business. I tole yer so, but you didn’t take no stock in it.”
“I don’t take no stock in it now.”
“You will.”
“Git out!”
“You will,” persisted Spud.
The crowd had been surprised, but it was far from displeased. Having perfect confidence in Wolfers, it rejoiced because the game promised to be close and exciting.
“Frank, you have the goods!” said Hodge, as Merry came to the bench. “Why, I believe you could shoot the ball through a knot hole to-day!”
“My control is pretty good,” nodded Merry.
“Pretty good! It’s marvelous! Can you keep it up?”
“Somehow I think so. I have a feeling that I’ll be able to do just about what I like with the ball through this game.”
“Then the game is ours,” said Hodge.
Merriwell was the first batter in the second inning.
“Let’s see if I can’t give him a little of the medicine he’s been handing out,” Wolfers muttered to himself.
He tried his best to fool Merry, but Frank let the first pitch go for a ball and caught the second one fairly on his bat, lining it out for two bags.
Wolfers turned green.
To himself he swore savagely.
“I’ll know better than to give him another one like that,” he thought.
Hodge was eager to follow Frank’s example. He forced Wolfers to cut a corner, and then he hit the ball fair and hard.
It went like a bullet.
Straight into the hands of Rush.
Like a flash Rush snapped it to Tinker, who covered second.
Frank was caught off the bag, not having time to get back, and the Elks had made a handsome double play.
“Hooray!” bellowed the big man. “That’s the kind of work, boys!”
The crowd cheered, and the play deserved it.
Hodge felt sore.
“That was hard luck!” he exclaimed. “I tried to place that hit, but I didn’t judge the curve just right.”
Naturally Merry felt somewhat disappointed, but he accepted the result philosophically, knowing such things were the penalty of fate in baseball.
Gamp came out not a whit the less resolute and determined. He felt that it was up to him to do something, and he tried hard, but Wolfers was on his mettle at last, and he struck Joe out.
“That’s the stuff!” roared the big man. “Now you’re getting into gear, Robert!”
Then he urged the local players to go in and hammer Frank all over the lot. Rush was eager to follow this advice. He was too eager, for Merry led him into putting up a pop fly, which fell into the hands of Rattleton.
Glade followed and tried a waiting game. Seeing what he was doing, Merry put two swift ones over the inside corner, and two strikes were called.
Then Glade hit a pretty grounder to Morgan, who made a mess of it, permitting the Elkton man to reach first.
It was recorded as an error for Dade. Morgan was angry, but Merry soothed him with a word or two.
“Those things will happen occasionally,” said Frank. “You’ll get the next one, my boy.”
“You bet I will!” Dade muttered to himself.
Frank took a chance with Glade, making a long swing before delivering the ball, and then sending it in with great speed.
Glade fancied he saw his opportunity to steal on that swing, and he tried it.
Few who saw the Elkton man go down from first fancied it would be possible for Bart to catch him at second.
The ball had been delivered so that it came into the hands of Bart just right for a quick throw. He waited not a second in making a long swing, but snapped it with a short-arm movement.
As true as a bullet from a rifle it flew into the hands of Rattles at second. And it came just right for Harry to put it onto the runner.
Glade saw his danger and tried to slide under, but Rattleton pinned him fast to the ground.
Once more Spud Bailey stood on his head, and once more Freckles kicked him over.
The spectators were generous with their applause, for they recognized the fact that Bart had made a wonderful throw.
“That’s a good whip you have, young fellow,” said the big man.
“Pretty work, Hodge!” smiled Frank. “I thought he would try it. Can’t fool many of them that way if you keep up that throwing.”
“Oh, they’ll work for this game if they get it!” said Hodge.
“Haw! haw!” laughed Tinker mockingly. “Don’t pat yourself on the back so soon. The game is young.”
He walked out to hit.
All the Elks were inclined to be sarcastic and mocking, but they were beginning to realize that it would be no easy thing to run up a safe score early in the game. The Merries were out to win if such a thing could be done.
Frank knew Tinker was inclined to bat the ball into the air, and he pitched with the idea of compelling the fellow to do this. In the end he succeeded, for the batter put up a slow and easy one to Badger, who smothered it.
The second inning was over, and neither side had made a run.
“He won’t last,” declared Wolfers. “He’ll take a balloon trip, same as the other chap did.”
“They never can score off you, Bob,” declared Sprowl.
“Not in a thousand years,” grinned the Elkton pitcher. “It would be a disgrace.”
Then he went into the box and handed Browning one on which Bruce made a clean single.
“Stay there, you big duffer!” muttered Wolfers. “You’ll never reach second.”
He was mistaken, for, although he kept the ball high, Rattleton managed to bunt, making a beautiful sacrifice.
The wonder from Wisconsin saw that the Merries knew something about scientific stick work. He braced up and did his prettiest with Dunnerwurst.
“A hit must get me!” murmured the Dutchman, as he missed the first one struck at. “Der oppordunity vas all mine. Yah!”
But Wolfers led him into batting a weak one to Cronin, who snapped it across the diamond.
Dunnerwurst was out.
Cross returned the ball to Cronin, for Browning had dashed toward third.
Browning got a handsome start and he ran like a deer. He slid for the bag.
Cross tried to block him, but Bruce went round the fellow’s feet and grabbed a corner of the bag, lying flat on his stomach just out of reach when the third baseman tried to touch him quickly.
Never could any person unacquainted with the big chap fancy it possible for him to purloin a bag so handsomely. Cronin was sore with himself for giving Bruce the opportunity. He had fancied it would be an easy thing for Cross to return the ball in time to catch the runner, in case the latter attempted to take third.
Merry was on the coaching line back of third.
“Pretty work, Bruce!” he laughed. “You fooled them. They thought they had you.”
Ready came out to bat once more.
A signal passed between Wolfers and Sprowl. The latter crouched close under the bat.
Wolfers put the first ball straight over.
It was a beauty.
Ready swung at it.
Just as he did so something touched his bat lightly, deflecting it the least bit, and he missed.
Jack turned quickly on Sprowl.
“What are you trying to do?” he demanded, frowning, no trace of levity in his manner.
“Excuse me,” said the catcher sweetly. “I was a bit too close.”
“Better get back a little.”
Again Wolfers put the ball over the very heart of the pan.
Again Jack’s bat was tapped lightly and deflected.
Ready dropped the end of his bat to the ground and stepped onto the plate to prevent Wolfers from pitching.
“Mr. Umpire,” he called, “I wish you would watch this catcher. He is rather careless with his hands.”
“Oh, come off!” cried Sprowl. “Don’t cry baby if you can’t hit a straight ball. It’s your own fault. Give him another, Bob. He never made a hit in his life.”
Hodge had seen Wolfers deflect Ready’s bat.
“Play ball!” commanded the umpire.
“Get off that plate, or I’ll put the ball through you!” snarled Wolfers.
“Get off, Jack,” called Hodge. “I’ll watch him. If he does the trick again, I’ll talk to him a bit.”
Sprowl looked at Bart and laughed.
“You wouldn’t frighten any one,” he said. “Why don’t you fellows play ball? Are you going to cry baby so early in the game?”
“That’s the talk!” roared the big man. “Make ’em play ball! Of course he can’t hit Wolfers, and he wants to work his way down to first somehow.”
Few among the spectators had seen Sprowl touch Jack’s bat, and therefore the crowd was opposed to him. Jeers and catcalls came from every side.
Ready was angry. For once in his life, he had quite lost control of his temper.
“If you keep it up,” he growled to Sprowl, “something will happen to you.”
Then he stepped off the plate and Wolfers snapped the ball over like a flash.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah three!” cried the umpire. “You’re out!”
How the crowd did laugh and jeer at Jack.
“That’s what you get for crying baby!” yelled a shrill voice.
“It will be Mr. Sprowl’s turn to bat in a moment!” said Hodge, as he picked up the body protector.
Frank heard these words.
“None of that kind of business, Bart,” he said grimly. “It won’t do. We’re not playing that sort of a game.”
“But are we going to stand for this?”
“We can call the attention of the umpire to it. He’ll have to stop it.”
“He doesn’t seem inclined.”
“We’ll have to make him inclined, then. I think he’s pretty near square, although it’s likely he sympathized with the locals.”
“Of course he does! We’ve got to fight for our rights, if we get them.”
“That’s true; but we’ll fight on the level. No crookedness. No trickery.”
So Bart went under the bat feeling rather sore and very anxious to get even with Sprowl.
Cross hit to Frank, who tossed the ball to Browning for an easy out.
Then it was Sprowl’s turn.
As Bart crouched under the bat of the tricky catcher, he muttered:
“I want to give you a warning, Mr. Man.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
“If you hit my bat with your mitt when I’m striking you’ll be sorry. I won’t stand for it.”
“Why, what will you do?”
“You’ll find out!”
Sprowl laughed sneeringly. Then he batted a grounder to Ready, who made a poor throw to Browning, and Sprowl reached first.
“Don’t talk to me!” he cried. “Don’t warn me! I always get a hit when somebody threatens me.”
“Dot hid dit not get you!” cried Dunnerwurst. “Id peen not a hit. Off Vrankie Merrivell you got yet no hits ad all, and maype you vill nod dood id efer so long as I live.”
“Why don’t you learn to talk United States?” cried Rush, who was coaching.
“He can talk better than he can play ball,” said Sprowl, in his nasty way.
Wolfers strode out with his bat.
“Got a hit off me, did you, Merriwell!” he thought. “Well, here is where I even up.”
Then Frank fooled him handsomely with a swift rise, a drop and a “dope ball.” Wolfers struck at them all. He fancied the dope was coming straight over, but the ball seemed to pause and hang in the air, as if something pulled it back. This caused the batter to strike too soon.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah three! You’re out!”
The man from Wisconsin turned crimson with anger and mortification.
“Oh, I presume you think you’re a great gun!” he snapped at Frank.
“Not at all,” retorted Merry. “It’s no trick to strike you out.”
This infuriated Wolfers.
“I don’t think it’s much of a trick to strike you out,” he flung back.
“It’s dead easy for a good pitcher to do it,” laughed Merriwell.
“Oh, you fresh duck!” muttered Wolfers, as he walked to the bench. “Just you wait! I’ll give you your medicine.”
His appearance of good nature had vanished like fog before a hot sun. He was now consumed with rage and a desire to outdo Frank in some manner.
“Lace ’em out, Kit!” implored Sprowl, as Kitson advanced to the plate. “He’s easy.”
Never in his life had Merry pitched with greater ease. He used curves, speed and a change of pace, having perfect control. Although he could handle the “spit ball,” he did not attempt to use it. He did not believe it necessary.
Kitson was anxious to hit. Merry seemed to give him pretty ones, but the ball took queer curves and shoots, and soon the right fielder of the Elks struck out.
The third inning was over, and neither side had scored. It was a battle royal between Wolfers and Merriwell.
Up to this point two clean hits, one a two-bagger, had been made off Wolfers.
Merriwell had not permitted a hit.
Morgan opened the fourth by smashing a hot one along the ground to Rush, who stopped it but chased it round his feet long enough for Dade to canter down to first.
“Here we go!” roared Browning.
“You won’t go very far!” sneered Wolfers.
Badger tried to sacrifice, but his bunt lifted a little pop fly to Wolfers, and he was out.
Then came Merriwell again.
“Don’t let this chap get another hit off you, Bob,” implored Cronin.
“No danger of it,” said the pitcher.
But on the second ball delivered Frank reached far over the outside corner of the plate and connected with the ball, cracking out a hot single that permitted Badger to speed round to third.
Merry took second on the throw to catch Badger at third.
The look on the face of Bob Wolfers was murderous. He stood and glared at Frank, who smiled sweetly in return.
“You’re the luckiest fellow alive!” said the Elkton twirler. “I saw you shut your eyes when you struck at that ball.”
“You’re so easy that I can hit your pitching with my eyes closed,” retorted Merriwell.
Imagine the feelings of Spud Bailey. He was strutting now in the midst of the village boys, not a whit intimidated by threats of a “walloping” after the game.
“I told you fellers how it would be before der game began,” he said, throwing out his chest, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “It couldn’t help bein’ dat way. Dey’re bangin’ der eye outer Wolfers, but I don’t see ’em hitting Frank Merriwell any.”
“Wot sorter feller are you ter go back on yer own town, hey?” savagely snarled Freckles. “We’ll all t’ump yo’ as soon as we git ye off der groun’s!”
“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!”
“You are!”
“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!” asserted Spud. “How many Elkton fellers is dere on dat team? They’ve dropped all our players an’ brung fellers in from ev’rywhere. If Frank Merriwell’s team was playin’ fer us, all you fellers would be yellin’ fer them.”
This sort of logic did not go with the other boys, nevertheless, and Spud was very unpopular.
Once again it was the turn of Bart Hodge to bat. He gave Sprowl a look as he came out.
Sprowl snickered.
“You scare me dreadfully,” he said.
“Keep your paws off my bat when I’m striking,” warned Bart.
Wolfers started with a drop.
Bart missed it.
He longed to get a clean, safe hit to right field, being satisfied that Merry would score on it if obtained, following Morgan in.
The suspense was great, for every one realized that a hit meant one run—possibly two.
Then Bart began to make fouls.
Once Sprowl touched his bat, but he fouled the ball. He felt that he must have made a safe hit only for that light deflection of the bat just as he swung.
“Did you see that, Mr. Umpire?” he cried.
The umpire had seen nothing.
Like Ready, Bart stepped onto the plate and turned to Sprowl.
“I want to tell you something,” he said, in a cold, hard tone. “This is it: If you touch my bat again I’ll turn round and punch your face for you! Is that plain enough?”
“I’d enjoy having you try it!” flung back Sprowl.
“You’re quite certain to have the enjoyment.”
“I haven’t touched your bat. You dreamed it.”
“You hear what I said and take heed.”
Then Hodge stepped off, but he was ready to hit, so that Wolfers could not catch him napping, as Ready had been caught.
Wolfers took plenty of time and sent one straight over the outside corner.
Sprowl again touched the bat with his mitt just as Bart started to strike. True to his threat, Hodge flung the bat aside and sailed into the tricky catcher with both fists.
Sprowl seemed to expect it, for he snapped off his mask and met Hodge halfway.
He did not last long, for Bart smashed down the fellow’s guard and struck him a blow that sent him down in a heap.
What an uproar followed!
Several of Bart’s companions rushed from the bench and seized him, while players of the other team hurried to get between the two.
“Time!” yelled the umpire.
Ladies in the stand screamed and one fainted.
Men rose up and shouted incoherently, while the crowd from the bleachers poured onto the field.
It seemed that the game would end in a free fight.
In the midst of the excitement Seymour Whittaker forced his way into the midst of the struggling, wrangling mass of men.
“Gentlemen!” he cried; “be reasonable! I’ve been watching this thing. I played ball myself once. I saw our catcher touch the batter’s stick! He did it twice and did it deliberately. The umpire may not have seen it. The batter warned our catcher. He had a right to be mad. Don’t break this game up in a free fight! You know I have wagered money on our boys. I believe they can win, but I want them to win honorably. Wolfers doesn’t need a catcher to help him by such tricks. He can pitch well enough to win without such aid. Let’s be square. Let those fellows settle their trouble after the game is over. We’re not rowdies here in Elkton. We want to see square baseball. This business will hurt the game. Go back and sit down, all of you.”
These words were enough, although other men now declared that they had seen Sprowl touch Bart’s bat. The crowd was quieted, and began to walk off to the bleachers.
Sprowl had been struck on the cheek, and Bart’s fist left a bad bruise there.
He swore he would get even with Hodge. His companions induced him to agree not to press the matter until after the game was finished.
Finally things quieted down and playing was resumed.
Hodge asked the umpire to give him a pass to first on the interference of Sprowl; but the umpire had not seen it, Sprowl denied it, and Bart was declared out on the third strike.
This made two men out, with Morgan and Merriwell on third and second.
Gamp was the batter, and everything seemed to depend on him.
Wolfers was on his mettle. His pitching against Joe was superb, for the tall chap did not touch the ball.
The Merries had been prevented from securing a run. They felt that they had been defrauded, for to all it seemed likely that Bart might have made a hit only for the interference of Sprowl.
As a pitchers’ battle the game was a great exhibition. Although seven hits were obtained off Wolfers in seven innings, the visitors could not score.
On the other hand, being in the most perfect form, Frank did not permit a hit in seven innings.
The eighth opened with Badger at bat.
Buck managed to roll a slow one into the diamond.
Both Cronin and Wolfers went after it, bothering each other, and Buck reached first by tall hustling.
Then came the hit of the day.
Merriwell was the man. Each time he had faced Wolfers there was “something doing.” This time Wolfers tried harder than ever to strike him out; but Frank slammed the ball against the centre-field fence for three bags, sending Badger home with the first run of the game.
Spud Bailey nearly died of delight.
“I knowed it!” he whooped. “Wot d’yer t’ink of him now, Freck?”
“He’s a lucky hitter,” said Freckles.
But the sympathy of several small boys had turned to the visitors. They admired Bart Hodge for standing up for his rights.
“G’wan, Freck!” they cried. “He’s a corkin’ player, an’ you know it.”
“I hope them fellers win,” said a tall, thin boy. “Dey’re all right.”
“They’ll win; don’t worry about that,” assured Spud.
Ben Raybold and Seymour Whittaker had found seats together after the excitement caused when Hodge hit Sprowl.
Raybold had complimented Whittaker on his manliness and sporting blood in taking the stand he did.
“It may cost you a hundred dollars, Mr. Whittaker,” said Raybold.
“I don’t care a rap!” retorted the Elktonite. “I want to see a square game, win or lose.”
After Frank’s hit, Raybold asked Whittaker what he thought of Merry.
“He’s the greatest ball player I ever saw!” exclaimed Whittaker. “We must have him on our team.”
“You haven’t money enough in the State of Ohio to get him on salary,” said Raybold.
That run obtained by Badger was the only one secured in the eighth. The Elks tried hard, but they could not fathom Merry’s curves.
In the first of the ninth the visitors did nothing, Wolfers striking out three men, one after another, as fast as they faced him.
Although the Elkton pitcher was sore, he kept up his good work. He was not a quitter. He played ball right along, never failing to do his best.
When the Elks came to bat in their half of the ninth Jack Lawrence implored them to get a run somehow.
“Don’t let them shut us out!” he entreated. “It will be a disgrace!”
“I thought so a while ago,” said Wolfers, in a low tone; “but it will be no disgrace to be whitewashed while batting against a fellow like that Merriwell. I didn’t think he could pitch at all. He’s the best man I ever saw toe the rubber! I’m going to tell him so after the game. Why, Lawrence, we’ve got a team of hitters. Every man is a sticker. Do you realize that we haven’t secured a single safe hit to-day?”
“I realize it!” groaned Lawrence.
Nor did they secure one. For Merry it was a “no-hit, no-run” game. Although he struck out but one man in the ninth, the other two batted easy bounders into the diamond and were thrown out at first.
The game ended one to nothing in favor of the Merries.
Bob Wolfers was the first to reach Frank and grasp his hand.
“Boy, you’re all right!” he cried. “If I’ve said anything unpleasant, I apologize. You’re a gentleman, too! As a pitcher, you’ve got any youngster living skinned a mile!”
The Elks remembered what had followed the first game, when the Merries were defeated, and they did not fail to cheer for the winners.
“Sa-a-ay, Mr. Merriwell—sa-a-a-ay!”
Frank looked round.
Spud Bailey and a dozen other youngsters had managed to crowd as near him as possible. Freckles was with them, hanging back a little.
“Dese are me frien’s,” said Spud, with a wave of his hand. “I tole ’em wot you could do, an’ now dey know it. Dey t’ink you’re de goods. Permit me ter introduce ’em.”
“With pleasure,” smiled Frank.
And he made every one of them—even Freckles—as proud as a peacock by shaking hands as they were presented by Spud. In after years they would boast of the day when they shook hands with Frank Merriwell, the greatest pitcher “wot ever was.”
The End