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Title: Frank Merriwell's Support; Or, A Triple Play

Author: Burt L. Standish

Release date: July 21, 2020 [eBook #62719]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, John Campbell and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK MERRIWELL'S SUPPORT; OR, A TRIPLE PLAY ***




Produced by David Edwards, John Campbell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.




                       Frank Merriwell’s Support

                                 OR,

                            A TRIPLE PLAY


                                 BY
                          BURT L. STANDISH
               Author of the famous MERRIWELL STORIES.


                 [Illustration: (publisher colophon)]


                      STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                              PUBLISHERS
                    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York




                            Copyright, 1901
                           By STREET & SMITH

                       Frank Merriwell’s Support

               (Printed in the United States of America)

     All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
                 languages, including the Scandinavian.




                       FRANK MERRIWELL’S SUPPORT.




                               CHAPTER I.

                          AN EXCITING INNING.


It was the seventh inning, Frank Merriwell’s team had not scored,
while the Omaha Stars, who had been putting up a hard game against
the boys from the East, had made two runs, one in the first inning
and one in the fifth.

Frank had been pitching a fine game, although his wrist, sprained
some time before, had not permitted him to use the double-shoot. In
the seventh inning, with the very first ball he pitched, he gave his
wrist a twist that sent a shooting pain all the way to his shoulder.

The ball went wide of the plate, and the batter did not strike at it.
When Bart Hodge returned the ball, he knew something had happened, by
the expression on Frank’s face. Merry caught the ball with his left
hand and stood still, holding it.

“Play ball!” roared the excited crowd. “Make him pitch!”

Still Frank seemed in no hurry. He took the ball in his hand, while
Bart gave the signal for a drop. Merry shook his head, and Bart
signed for an out. Again Frank shook his head, assuming a position
that told the entire team he intended to use a high, straight ball.
But he did not pitch.

Dorrity, the captain and first-baseman of the Stars, demanded of the
umpire that Merriwell be compelled to deliver the ball.

“Pitch the ball!” roared the crowd.

Even that did not seem to incite Frank to put it over.

“Two balls!” called the umpire, although Frank had not again
delivered the sphere to the bat.

“Ha!” shouted the crowd. “That’s the stuff!”

The second ball had been called on Merry as a penalty for delaying
the game for no good reason.

A grim look came into the face of the greatest pitcher ever graduated
from Yale. He did not kick at the decision of the umpire, nor did he
show great haste in pitching after this.

“Call another!” cried several of the spectators. “He’s in a hole, and
he knows it!”

Frank settled himself firmly on the ground, just as Bart was ready
to start down to ask what was the matter. Then he sent over a high,
straight one that would have been a ball had the batter let it alone.

But the batter hit it. The man with the stick happened to be Hanson,
the heavy hitter of the Stars, and he tapped the ball a terrible
crack.

Away sailed the sphere, going out on a line over the infield, and
Hanson’s legs took him flying down to first.

Both Swiftwing and Gamp went after the ball, but Frank saw at once
that neither of them could catch it.

Swiftwing was a great runner, and he sped to cut the ball off after
it struck the ground.

Hanson crossed first and tore along to second, urged by the roaring
crowd.

Bart Hodge groaned as he saw the ball strike the ground and go
bounding away into left field, with Swiftwing tearing after it.

“Home run! home run!” yelled the spectators, while one of the home
team raced down to third, to be on hand there and send Hanson home as
he came along.

Away out in the far extreme of left field Swiftwing finally ran down
the ball. But Hanson was almost to third, and the spectators in the
grand stand and on the bleachers were certain he could reach home
before the ball could be sent in.

“Come home! come home!” they screamed.

Hanson crossed third, and the coacher sent him right along.

In the meantime Swiftwing had picked up the ball and given it a quick
snap to Gamp, the long New Hampshire youth, who was within two rods
of him. Joe turned with the ball in his hand, and saw Hanson crossing
third.

Then Joe set his teeth and swung back the hand that held the ball.
The crowd expected he would throw to Rattleton, on second. At first
it seemed that he had thrown to second, but had failed to get the
range correctly.

Then it was seen that Gamp had tried the seemingly impossible task of
throwing to the plate to cut the runner off.

“Run, Hanson--run!” shouted the spectators.

Hanson was doing his best to beat the ball to the plate, but that
ball came on with amazing speed. It was almost a “line throw” from
the far outfield, and the crowd was amazed by the manner in which the
ball hung up in the air instead of dropping to the ground. It showed
what wonderful force had been put into the throw.

Hodge settled himself in position to take the ball, and suddenly, as
Hanson neared the plate, the coachers shrieked for him to slide.

Hanson slid headlong, but Bart caught the ball and “bored” it into
his back, actually pinning him to the ground while his hand was yet a
foot from the plate. He tried to squirm forward and reach the plate,
but the voice of the umpire called:

“Out!”

A hush fell on the witnesses of this amazing piece of work. Only a
moment before they had been roaring loudly, but, of a sudden, they
were silent. Then somebody with a hoarse voice roared:

“Well, what do you think of that for a throw! Talk about a wing--that
fellow’s got it!”

Somebody clapped his hands, and a general volley of applause followed.

Hanson was filled with chagrin, for he had felt confident of making a
home run. He turned and quarreled with the coacher who sent him home
from third, and would not believe the ball had been thrown all the
distance from the farthest outfield to the plate.

Jack, the second-baseman of the Stars, now took his place to strike.

Merriwell had been rubbing his wrist as he walked down into the
box, after backing Hodge up on the catch of Gamp’s throw, and the
expression on his face, had any one studied it, seemed to indicate a
troubled mind.

“If Dick were here,” he muttered, thinking of his young brother,
“we’d be all right.”

But Dick Merriwell was not there, having been left behind in Wyoming,
to remain at the side of Old Joe Crowfoot, who had been shot and
severely wounded.

Despite his youth, Frank’s brother had shown himself a perfect little
wizard as a pitcher, being able to hold down heavy hitters. Just now
he would be handy to step into the box in Frank’s place, but he was
far away.

And there was no other pitcher on the team able to hold down the
heavy hitters of the Stars. So Frank set his teeth and resolved to
pitch the game through to the best of his ability.

Jack was a good hitter, but, up to this time, he had been unable to
touch Merriwell for a safe one. Frank tried a high one, which the
latter let pass. An out followed, and another ball was called.

Then Merry tried a drop, but again he felt that shooting pain, and
the ball went wide.

Now Frank was forced to put the ball over, in order to prevent the
batter from walking to first. He used speed, and kept it shoulder
high, with a slight in shoot.

Jack stepped forward and met the ball fairly, driving it out on a
line.

Carson jumped for the ball, touched it with his fingers, but did not
stop it. Jack reached first and started for second, but Rattleton got
the ball, and Carson covered second in time to drive the runner back
to first.

Maloney, the next hitter, was tall, red-headed, and freckle-faced.
He rapped the very first ball that Frank pitched, sending it down to
Rattleton so hotly that Harry fumbled, and the hitter was able to
reach first ahead of the throw.

“Everybody hits!” cried Dorrity, who was near third. “Get against
it, Corrigan, old man! Drive it out hard!”

Corrigan looked confident, but Frank caused him to fan at the first
ball delivered. Then Merry tried to work the corners, but found
himself rather wild, and three balls were called.

“Now he’s got to put ’em over!” cried Dorrity. “Wait it out!”

Frank took a chance and sent a straight one over.

Corrigan did not wait, but nailed the ball hard. It went to Ready
with the speed of a bullet. Ready put his body in front of the ball,
which took a nasty bound and struck him fairly between the eyes,
knocking him over.

Ready was dazed, and by the time he had recovered and got the ball,
Jack was on third and Maloney on second. Ready caught up the ball and
swung his arm to throw to first.

Frank saw that the throw would be useless, as Corrigan was already
too near the bag, and he shouted for Ready to hold the ball.

Ready could not stop the swing of his arm, but he held on to the ball
long enough to throw it down at his feet, and it bounded merrily away.

“Score!” yelled a coacher, and Jack made a jump off third to go home.

The spectators rose up and whooped madly once more.

Frank made a leap and got in front of the ball, which he succeeded in
stopping. Fortunately for him, Jack saw this soon enough to dive back
to third.

Merry recovered and drew back his hand to throw to third, but
instantly decided that it would be useless, knowing that a team often
goes to pieces and loses a game in a single inning by getting to
throwing the ball round in a hasty and reckless manner, so he held
the sphere.

But the bases were full and but one man was out. Something told Frank
that he was in a bad box. Still, he set his teeth and resolved to
“pull out” if it were possible.

The coachers were talking from both sides of the diamond, and the
excited crowd had not stopped its roaring.

Hodge was pale, and there was a fierce gleam in his eyes.

“Now we’ll hold ’em! Now we’ll hold ’em!” cried Rattleton, from
second.

“Talk about your stars!” exclaimed Ready. “I saw a few that time!”

“They won’t get another hit, Merry,” assured Carson, who was playing
short.

“Put ’em right over,” advised Browning.

“All a dud-dud-dinged accident!” asserted Gamp, from distant center
garden.

Swiftwing and Carker were the only silent ones behind Merry, for
even Hodge grimly asserted that it was all right.

Then Merriwell resolved to use the double-shoot, if it broke his
wrist. Bart called for an out curve as Dorrity stepped up to the
plate; but Merry assumed a position that told everybody on the team
he meant to use the famous reverse curve, which he alone could
command and control.

Bart knew Merry was desperate, for Frank had told him he would not
resort to that extreme in the game.

Dorrity was cool enough, but the first ball seemed just what he
desired, and he bit at it. The reverse curve fooled him nicely, and
he did not touch the ball.

“One strike!” declared the umpire.

Bart smiled grimly and nodded for another. Frank used exactly the
same sort of a curve, and again Dorrity went after it and failed to
connect.

“Why, it’s easy! it’s easy!” said Bart.

“A perfect snap,” assured Carson.

“Couldn’t hit one of them in fourteen million years,” said Ready.

“He’ll think he’s got the jam-jims--I mean the jim-jams,” came from
Rattleton.

“Please let him hit it,” urged Browning. “I want another put-out in
this inning. He can’t hit it out of the diamond.”

But Merry did not let up in the least. The very next one was a speed
ball, but Frank caused the curves to reverse the other way, and
Dorrity let it pass.

“Batter is out!” announced the umpire.

Dorrity threw down his bat and started into the diamond, yelling:

“What’s that? That ball didn’t come within a foot of the plate!”

“Sit down!” commanded the umpire grimly.

Dorrity insisted on kicking, and the umpire warned him again in a
manner that meant business.

“Robbery!” muttered the captain of the Stars, as he walked back to
the bench.

Two were out, and Batch, the pitcher of the home team, was the next
hitter. It happened that Merry had discovered Batch’s weak point,
and he did not fear him, for which reason he did not again use the
double-shoot in that inning.

A sharp drop caught Batch the first time. Then followed one close
to the batter’s hands, and he hit it on the handle of the bat. The
ball rolled out to Frank, who threw Batch out at first while Jack was
racing home.

The home team had not scored in that inning, but they were still two
ahead of the visitors, who had failed to make a single tally.

Hodge met Frank as he came in.

“How is the wrist?” asked Bart anxiously.

“Bad,” confessed Merry; “but don’t you say a word about it.”

“What made you use the double?”

“Had to do something to get out of that hole.”

“But----”

“It’s all right. We’re going to win this game--if we can.”

“It will take some scores to do it, and the weak end comes up this
time. We’ve got only one more chance after this.”

Swiftwing was the first batter. As a rule, the Indian hit well, but
had not secured a safe one thus far in the game. The former Carlisle
man now seized a bat and advanced to the plate, his manner betraying
determination to do something. Frank spoke to him, saying:

“Don’t try to kill the ball, John. A single is good enough, if you
can’t get a bag on balls. But wait--wait.”

Merry had found the Indian a poor waiter, and this case was no
exception. John was so eager to get a hit that he fell an easy victim
to the artifices of Batch, finally popping up a little fly, which was
taken by the third-baseman of the Stars.

Rattleton’s heart was in his boots when he advanced to the plate, but
he pretended to brace up. Batch worked the corners, and Harry bit at
two bad ones. Then, in sheer despair, Rattleton slashed at a high
one that was over his head, and hit it!

The ball was driven on a line between short and second, and Harry
raced down to first. If he had been contented with that, all would
have been well; but he tried to stretch a single into a two-bagger,
and O’Grady, the left-fielder, who had secured the ball, threw to
second.

When it was too late, Harry saw he could not reach second, and he
tried to turn back. Then he was caught between bases.

“That’s what loses the game!” groaned Hodge, as he saw the opposing
players get on the base-line to run Rattleton down.

Rattleton did his best to escape, while the players skilfully forced
him back toward first, and then pinned him so that he could not dodge
them. He was tagged with the ball, and the second man was out.

The crowd was delighted. They had expected a hot game, and they were
getting their money’s worth.

Frank’s team had been well advertised in Omaha, the papers telling
of its successful career through the Rocky Mountain region. Thus far
not a single defeat had been chalked against the Merries; but now it
began to seem that the long string of victories would be broken.

“La! la!” sighed Jack Ready. “How foolish it is for a man to try to
do more than he is capable of accomplishing!”

Then he pretended to wipe a tear from his eye as Rattleton, looking
very cheap and disgusted, came in to the bench.

“Somebody please kick me!” mumbled Harry.

“With great satisfaction!” exclaimed Jack, and he proceeded to do so.

“Thanks!” murmured Rattleton, as he sat down.

Frank said nothing to Harry, for he knew the unlucky chap felt bad
enough about what he had done, and Merry had learned by experience
that it did little good with a young team to “call down” the players
or “chew the rag” with them on the field.

Old stagers will take a call-down, but it takes the spirit out
of youngsters, sometimes making them sullen and sulky. A young
ball-player needs encouragement at all times, criticism often, but
public call-downs never. The captain or manager who is continually
yelling at his players on the field and telling them how bad they are
doing, causes them to lose five games where he drives them to win one.

Carker was the next man up, and Frank admonished him to wait for the
good ones. Greg was beaten already, and his appearance showed it.
Batch was full of confidence, and he put the balls right over.

Some batters have a faculty of working a pitcher, often getting
first base on balls; but the fellow who does this is usually a good
hitter, or he stands up to the plate, as if he was anxious to “line
it out.” When a pitcher is satisfied that the batter is longing to
hit he gets wary and declines to put the ball over. On the other
hand, let the pitcher suspect the batter is trying to get a base on
balls, and he does his best to “cut the plate.”

The first two balls pitched were strikes, yet Carker swung at neither
of them.

“It’s all off!” growled Hodge. “He’s the third victim.”

Then Batch sent in a wide one, and, knowing there were two strikes on
him, Greg reached for it.

Somehow Carker caught that ball on the end of his bat and sent it
skipping down past the first-baseman, who made an ineffectual effort
to block it.

“Run!” yelled Ready, suddenly rousing up. “Dig, you duffer! It’s a
hit!”

Carker had been amazed by his own success, but he came out of his
“trance” in a moment and hustled down to first. Gamp was there, and
he made Carker stick to the bag.

Merriwell grasped a bat and stepped up to the plate. Batch was afraid
of Merry, for he knew Frank was a good hitter, and he started in to
try to “pull” the batter.

Apparently Frank was ready and anxious to “lace” the first good one,
but his judgment seemed good, as he let the first two pass, and both
were called balls.

Batch was holding Carker close to first. As Hanson, the catcher of
the Stars, was a good thrower, there seemed little chance for Greg to
steal second.

The third ball was pretty high, and Merry took a chance on it by
failing to swing. A strike was called. Frank simply shook his head,
thus expressing his belief that the decision was not correct.

The next ball was a drop, and it seemed too low, so Merry let that
pass. Another ball was called.

“Got him!” chirped Ready. “Oh, ye Grecian gods! smile upon us now. Be
quiet, my good people, and watch us turn the trick. We are due to do
it.”

Batch settled himself for business, and whistled a speedy one to go
straight over the rubber. It didn’t get over, however, for Frank met
it “on the nose.”




                              CHAPTER II.

                            TAKING THE LEAD.


At the crack of the bat, as it seemed, Merry started to run. The ball
went out on a line toward right field, and Carker dashed for second.
The right-fielder made a jump to get in front of the ball, but it
went past him and struck the ground ten feet beyond.

Away into right field bounded the ball, while Carker and Merry tore
round the bases. As Carker approached third, he saw Carson wildly
motioning for him to go home.

Greg did not look round, but, had he done so, he would have seen
Merry coming after him with the speed of the wind. Frank was
overhauling Greg in a most amazing manner.

Under ordinary circumstances, the hit into right field would have
been a fair three-bagger; but Merry covered ground so fast that
Carson took a chance in sending him home.

As Carker approached the plate, Frank Merriwell was not twenty feet
behind him. The fielder had secured the ball and thrown it to the
first-baseman, who ran out to take it.

Then the baseman whirled and lined the ball to the plate.

Carker did not slide, but he barely went over the plate ahead of the
ball. Frank, however, threw himself forward in a long headlong slide.

Hanson took the ball and touched Merry, but Frank was lying with his
hand on the plate.

“Safe!” declared the umpire.

Frank had stretched a three-bagger into a home run, and the score was
tied.

Of a sudden, a great change had come over the game.

“It’s all over, boys!” laughed Ready. “We can’t help winning now!
It’s another scalp for us!”

“That’s Frank Merriwell!” cried an excited boy on the bleachers. “You
can’t beat him! The whole world can’t beat him!”

Batch was sore. A short time before he had been smiling, but now
there was no smile on his face. He looked serious enough as Ready
came up. Jack was determined to “keep the ball rolling,” and he got
a nice hit off the second ball pitched.

Among the spectators were two men who were watching the game with
deep interest. One man was stout and red-faced, with a stubby
mustache, while the other was slender and dark, wearing a suit of
blue. The stout man choked and gurgled when the umpire declared Merry
safe at the plate.

“Rotten!” he snarled. “He was out by a foot!”

“I don’t think so, Hazen,” said the other man.

“Why, what ails you?” gurgled the portly man. “Do you want to see us
lose this game, Wescott?”

“Not much,” answered Wescott. “It means something to me. I have over
two hundred dollars bet on the Stars.”

“Two hundred!” exploded Hazen. “I have almost a thousand! I spent
half of last night hunting bets, and I took everything I could get at
any odds.”

“Well,” said the man in blue, “I’m afraid we’re in a bad box. This
fellow Merriwell is lucky. He has a way of winning at anything and
everything.”

“But those kids can’t beat our boys!”

“They may. The score is tied.”

“How in blazes can you take it so easy?”

“What’s the use to fret? It won’t win the game.”

“Fret! fret! If you had staked as much as I have, you’d not be so
cool.”

“You can afford to lose a thousand as well as I can two hundred. You
made three thousand on the Ryan-Cummings fight.”

“That was a sure thing. I was tipped off the way that mill was going.”

“And you thought this a sure thing to-day?”

“Yes. Why not? Those chaps are a lot of boys. The Stars are veterans.”

“But that lot of boys have the best man for a captain who stands in
shoe-leather to-day. He makes them win games--when he can’t win them
alone.”

“He can’t make them win all the time.”

“He does. He hasn’t been pitching at his usual standard to-day. He
had to open up in the last inning, and he will in the next. See if he
doesn’t shut the Stars out.”

Carson was in position to strike. Batch tried all the tricks he knew,
but Berlin waited till three balls had been called.

Then a sign passed between Jack and Berlin for the former to go down
on the next ball pitched.

The ball was right over, and Carson swung at it, missing
intentionally. At the same time he seemed to lose his footing and
fall back against the catcher. The trick was done so well that
Carson’s own friends did not know it was intentional, and he bothered
the catcher long enough for Ready to reach second safely ahead of the
throw to catch him.

Carson did not lose his head, but he was patient, which resulted in
a base on balls.

Bart Hodge advanced to the plate.

“It’s all over!” cried Ready, as he danced about close to second.
“He’ll hit it a mile!”

Batch caught Bart on a drop at the very start, Hodge missing the ball
by several inches.

“Get under it!” called Ready. “If you let him strike you out, I’ll
drop dead right here.”

The next one was a ball, but Bart hit the third one, making a clean
single, on which Ready scored from second. Merriwell’s team had the
lead for the first time during the game.

“You’ve lost your money, Hazen,” said Wescott.

But Hazen had suddenly started from the bleachers, jumped over the
rail, and was moving toward the bench occupied by the visitors.

“What the dickens is he up to?” muttered Wescott, in surprise.

Frank felt a hand touch his arm, and, looking round, found the
red-faced man at his elbow.

“Fifty dollars if you let them hit you in the next inning!” breathed
Hazen huskily. “Throw the game and the money is yours!”

Merry felt his face turn red.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Will you do it?” panted Hazen.

“Where is an officer?” demanded Frank. “I want this man put out.”

“A hundred dollars!” came from the gambler.

“Get out!” Frank sternly commanded. “You can’t buy me!”

“Two hundred!” bid Hazen. “Don’t be a fool! I am good for it! Here!
Shake hands with me!”

He suddenly grasped Frank’s hand, into which he pressed something.
When Merry looked, he was astonished to see the man had left a wad
of bills in his hand.

Instantly Frank flung the money in the man’s face, speaking in a low,
hard tone:

“You’ve made a big mistake! Take your dirty money and get out of this
lively!”

Hazen’s face became redder than ever. Seeing he was exposed, he
immediately said:

“I want you to stand by your word! You said you’d sell the game for
two hundred dollars if you got ahead; now you can’t back out, for I
hold you to the agreement.”

Merry saw through the trick, and he turned pale, while a strange
laugh broke from his lips.

“You’re a big bluffer, but I don’t think you’ll fool anybody. It will
take more than two hundred dollars to buy me.”

The man had picked up his money.

“Then you’re a liar!” he said; “for you made a fair and square
agreement with me.”

“You are the one who lies!” Merry asserted. “I never saw you before.”

“You’re a cheap chap to go back on your word.”

This was something more than Frank could stand, and he had the stout
man by the collar in a moment.

“Swallow your words!” he said, as he gave the man a shake. “Take them
back!”

“Never! It’s true!”

Then Frank Merriwell gave that corpulent party such a shaking that it
took the wind out of Hazen and made him limp as a rag.

“Sus-sus-stop it!” he spluttered. “How dare you lay hands on me?”

“How dare you offer me money to throw this game!” exclaimed Merry
indignantly. “What you need is a first-class thrashing!”

“That’s the stuff!” roared the crowd. “Give it to him, Merriwell!”

An officer appeared, and Hazen was ordered back to the bleachers. He
retired, his face purple with anger, while he muttered beneath his
breath.

This little incident seemed to turn the sympathy of a great portion
of the audience toward Merriwell. Somebody shouted:

“What’s the matter with Frank Merriwell?”

The crowd thundered:

“He’s all right!”

“Play ball!” called the umpire impatiently.

Hazen resumed his seat beside Wescott, who said:

“Well, you made an exhibition of yourself! What good did it do you?”

“That fellow is a fool!” growled the stout man.

“You might have known you could not buy him.”

“Every man has his price.”

“Not Frank Merriwell.”

“Oh, I don’t believe he is an exception.”

“You found him so.”

“I didn’t offer him enough.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because there is another way to get this game.”

“How?”

“I know Derring, the umpire.”

“Well?”

“He has seen me.”

“What of that?”

“He’s looking this way now.”

Then Hazen suddenly held up his hand and made a peculiar sign. It was
impossible to tell whether Derring saw and understood or not.

“What are you doing?” asked Wescott.

“Making my last bid for this game,” declared the corpulent man.

“Well, you must have nerve!” exclaimed Wescott. “That fellow can’t
throw the game now.”

“Perhaps not; but we’ll see. Look at that. Ha!”

Gamp was the batter, and at this juncture the umpire called a strike
on him that was over his head.

“Do you think he did that intentionally?” whispered Wescott, as the
crowd roared in derision.

“Wait,” was the only thing Hazen would say.

The next ball was wide of the plate, but again a strike was called by
the umpire.

“Sus-sus-sus-say!” stuttered Joe, “dud-dud-dud-don’t you want me to
lend ye a pup-pup-pup-pair of glasses?”

The next ball was so low that the catcher almost picked it up off the
ground, but the umpire loudly announced:

“Batter is out!”

“Rank!” howled a voice.

“Bum!” yelled another.

“Awful! awful!” shrieked a shrill-voiced man.

Then the crowd took it up and jeered at the umpire.

“By George!” exclaimed Wescott, laughing, “I believe the fellow has
taken you at your offer, Hazen!”

The corpulent gambler drew a breath of relief.

“I hope he has,” he said. “There’s a bare show that the Stars will
win out.”

Gamp made the third one out, and the home team came in from the field.

Merry went out and protested to the umpire, but his protest did no
good.

“We’ll have to hold them down, fellows,” said Frank. “It’s the only
way to win out.”

His arm, however, was feeling bad, and he was fearful that he might
find great trouble in remaining in the box to the end.

Teller headed the list for the home team, and he was the first man
up. Frank gave him the first one right over the heart of the plate.

“One ball!” said the umpire.

Frank looked at the man.

“Did I understand you?” he asked. “Did you call that a ball?”

“Don’t get fresh, young man!” growled the umpire. “You know it was a
ball!”

“Didn’t it go straight over the heart of the plate?”

“It was a ball! I called it that, and it has to stand.”

The crowd showed its disgust by uttering cries of derision, and
shouting scornfully at the umpire. Merry put another over, but this
time he used a drop.

“Two balls!”

“Outrage!” snarled Hodge. “Hit him, Merry!”

Teller realized that something had happened, and he refused to strike
at either of the next two pitched, though both were on the outside
corner. The umpire sent him to first.

Then came Skew, who swung at the ball as Teller went down to second
for a steal.

For once, Hodge threw a bit wild, but Rattleton got the ball and
jumped for the man, who slid. Teller was tagged while two feet off
the base.

“Safe at second!” said the umpire.

“What is this?” yelled a man on the bleachers. “We came here to see
a game of ball. This is a regular roast!”

The work of the umpire was turning the crowd against the home team.

Skew hit the next ball pitched. It went straight at Ready, who
gathered it up and saw it would be an easy thing to catch the runner
with a good throw. Jack sent the ball whistling across the diamond,
and Browning had it three seconds before the runner passed over first.

“Safe!” cried the umpire.

Frank tried to convince the umpire that the decision was wrong, but
found he was wasting his breath in talk.

O’Grady came up. Thinking he might wait to get his base on balls,
Merry ventured one on the corner.

O’Grady hit it hard.

“That ties the score!” cried many.




                              CHAPTER III.

                             AN ANGRY MOB.


The ball went out to Swiftwing, who was compelled to run hard, coming
straight in. It seemed that the ball would strike the ground before
the redskin could get his hands on it, but John sprinted hard and
made a forward dive as he ran.

The ball struck in the hands of the fielder when it was not over six
inches from the ground. Swiftwing held it.

Teller and Skew were racing round the bases, having been coached to
go along. Teller had reached third and was going home, while Skew had
passed over to second.

Instead of trying to head off Skew by throwing to third, Swiftwing
threw to second. Rattleton took the throw, while Skew reached third.
Then Rattleton threw to first.

Frank called the umpire and asked him to announce the batter and two
runners ahead of him out.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the umpire, as if greatly
amazed. “There is nobody out.”

“What?” exclaimed Merry, astounded. “Why, the three men are out, and
you know it!”

“Tell me how?”

“O’Grady is out on Swiftwing’s catch of his long drive, and the other
men are out for having been caught off their bases on a ball that was
caught before it touched the ground.”

“Look here!” cried the umpire, “whom do you take me for? I know
something about this game, and I have a good pair of eyes. Your
Indian didn’t catch that ball.”

“He didn’t?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because he picked it up just after it struck the ground. I saw him
do it.”

The words of the umpire caused great excitement on Merriwell’s team;
but the players kept away and let Frank settle the matter, having
been taught to do so.

The crowd had quieted down enough to hear something of what was being
said, and great surprise was manifested by the decision.

“It’s an outrage!” exclaimed more than one.

The spectators were angry. A short time before they had been roaring
and “rooting” for the home team, but the rank work of the umpire had
turned all their sympathy to Merriwell’s team.

“That man is out on first!” shouted an excited spectator, as he stood
up and made furious gestures.

“He’s out! he’s out!”

“Both of those runners are out!” yelled another man. “They ran on a
fly ball that was caught. Come in, Merriwell!”

Then the crowd began to yell:

“Out! out! out!”

“Play ball!” snarled the umpire. “I have given my decision!”

“But you’ll have to change it,” asserted Frank.

“Never!”

“You know you are wrong, and everybody in that crowd knows it. You
have turned the crowd against you by your work.”

“You shut up and play ball!” came savagely from the umpire. “If you
don’t, I’ll declare the game forfeited.”

“Go ahead and declare it,” said Merry. “You cannot drive us that way.”

“Will you play ball, or not?”

“Put that umpire out!” roared the crowd. “He’s robbing you,
Merriwell!”

“Hear that,” said Frank. “You can see what is thought of your work.”

“I don’t care!”

“Then your decision stands?”

“It does.”

“Come in, boys!” cried Merry. “We go to bat or leave the field.”

He made a gesture, and every man came trotting in from the field.

“Hooray!” cried the crowd. “That’s the talk! That’s right! that’s
right!”

Then they cheered loudly.

The captain of the Stars ran out to the umpire, but Frank gave that
individual no further attention. When the shouting lulled, the umpire
loudly cried:

“I will give Merriwell just one minute to put his men back on the
field. If he does not do it in that time I shall declare the game in
favor of the Omaha Stars.”

“You’re a thundering big stiff!” bellowed a man on the bleachers.

“He’s a robber--that’s what he is!” cried another man shrilly.

“Robber! robber! robber!” shrilled a lot of small boys.

“I propose we give him what he deserves!” came from the man with the
hoarse voice. “Come on!”

Over the rail he leaped, and then there was an upheaval of the angry
multitude, men following the leader like a flock of sheep. On to the
diamond rushed a mad mob that quickly surrounded the umpire.

Now, that umpire had not expected anything of the sort and he was
frightened, for he saw he was in danger of rough treatment. He could
not get away, and heavy hands were placed upon him.

“Thump him!”

“Kick him!”

“Tar and feather him!”

“Black his eyes!”

“Soak him!”

The man was in danger of being treated roughly.

Into that angry mob plunged Frank Merriwell, flung men aside, and
forced his way to the side of the cheating umpire.

“Stop!” rang out Frank’s clear voice, as he faced the furious mob.
“This is what kills baseball!”

“An umpire like that kills it!”

“Kill the umpire!”

“He ought to be lynched!”

“Perhaps he ought to be lynched,” said Merry; “but we didn’t come
here to take part in this kind of a game, and I don’t believe Mr.
Dorrity, captain of the Stars, wants to steal this game from us. We
play honest baseball, or not at all. All we ask of anybody is what we
deserve.”

“You’re not getting it from this whelp!”

“I know we are not, but I don’t want this game to end in a riot, and
you shall not mob the umpire.”

“Let’s do it, anyhow! He deserves it!” came from one man.

Frank’s team had been forcing its way to Merry’s side, and now, at
a sign, they closed round him and infolded the treacherous umpire.

“We are not anxious enough for this game to have it go out that the
umpire was mobbed,” said Merry. “We shall protect him.”

“Well, what do you think of that?” exclaimed the hoarse-voiced man.

“This Merriwell takes the cake!” said another man. “Instead of
protecting that cheat, I’d hit him over the head with a club, if I
were Merriwell!”

“The roaster ought to be soaked with a bat!”

“Are you going to let him rob you of the game, Merriwell?”

“I don’t think Mr. Dorrity will do that,” said Frank.

Dorrity had been trying to reach the umpire, and he finally succeeded.

“You’ll have to change that decision, Derring,” he said. “The crowd
won’t stand for it.”

“I gave it just as I saw it,” said Derring. “I can’t change it.”

“Then we’ll have to put in another umpire.”

“You have no right to put me out. An umpire is in for a game.”

“Not if he’s a barefaced robber!” cried somebody. “Put him out!”

“Put him out! put him out!” roared the crowd.

“Where is Chop Morrisy?” cried the captain of the Stars.

“Here,” answered a voice.

“Morrisy, we’ll have to ask you to finish umpiring this game. Won’t
you do it for us?”

“I’d rather not.”

“But you will?”

Morrisy hesitated, but finally consented.

“Get out, Derring!” cried the crowd. “Go off and die! Go bag your
head!”

Derring was fierce, and he snarled:

“I declare the game forfeited to the Omaha Stars by a score of nine
to nothing!”

“And we refuse to accept the forfeit,” said Dorrity promptly. “You
are no longer umpire, so you cannot declare it.”

“Off the field with him, boys,” said Frank.

Packed close about Derring, Merry’s men pushed through the mob and
hustled the cheating rascal off to the bleachers. As he climbed over
the rail the mob howled in derision at him.

Then the field was cleared, and Dorrity announced that the game would
go on.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                            BEATEN AT LAST.


“How are we going to settle Derring’s last decision?” asked Frank.
“All three men were out on the play, as you know, Dorrity.”

“I don’t know,” said the captain of the Stars. “In fact, I did not
see the catch, as I was urging the man to run. I thought the Indian
could not catch the ball.”

“But the crowd saw him do it.”

“Some of my men say it looked like a pick-up.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, we’ll put Teller and Skew back on second and first and let
O’Grady bat over. That’s fair.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are out.”

“But I’ve given in a point and changed the umpire.”

“I have permitted you to put in anybody you chose as umpire.”

“Oh, come, Merriwell, meet me half-way in this.”

“And give you all the advantage? I am not playing ball that way
to-day, Mr. Dorrity. As I have before stated, all I want is my due;
but that is what I will have if there is any way to get it.”

“Do you mean to refuse to play if those three men are not called out?”

“That’s just what I mean.”

“Why, the umpire will forfeit the game to us.”

“All right.”

“Don’t you ever yield a point?”

“Not in this kind of a game, if I know I am right.”

Dorrity found he could not budge Merriwell, and he reluctantly
ordered his men back on the field. The score stood three to two in
favor of Frank’s team. But the home team came last to bat.

It was the beginning of the ninth. Browning was the first man up
for Merry’s team, and the big fellow advanced heavily to the plate,
resolved to start things moving once more. Batch had sized up
Browning, and he kept the balls high and close.

Two strikes and two balls were called. Then Bruce popped up an easy
one, which was smothered in the first-baseman’s big mitt.

It was a bad start on the ninth. Swiftwing remembered his last turn
at bat, and he now did his best to get a hit. He was fortunate enough
to meet the ball and drop it over the infield for a safety.

But Rattleton fanned, and two were out. Carker had braced up
wonderfully since Merriwell was in the lead, and he went after the
ball in very pretty style, picking out the good ones and fouling
several.

Two strikes were called on him, and then he met the ball fairly,
sending it flying into the outfield. Maloney, the right-fielder, ran
for the ball, although it was really in center-field territory.

“Teller! Teller!” cried Dorrity loudly.

But it seemed that Maloney did not hear, for he kept after the ball.
The fielders collided and both went down. The ball had struck in the
hands of Teller, but Maloney sprang up at once and held it aloft.

“Batter out!” announced the umpire.

“Robber! robber!” cried many. “Teller dropped the ball and Maloney
picked it up!”

Frank “kicked” against the decision, but Morrisy stuck to it. Merry
had seen the ball strike in Teller’s hands, and he had not seen it
pass to the hands of Maloney. The affair was rather singular, yet he
could not say he had seen Teller drop the ball. Such being the case,
he was compelled to abide by the decision of the umpire. That retired
the side, with the score unchanged.

“We must get together and hold the enemy prostrate,” said Ready.
“It’s the way to win this game.”

Frank went into the box. Hodge knew Merry would start with the
double-shoot, meaning to strike out the first batter up.

Hanson, of the home team, stepped up to the plate. Frank gave him a
dazzler, and Hanson fanned.

But again that pain shot the whole length of Frank’s arm, and it felt
as if something had broken.

“Guess some of the glass cracked,” thought Frank.

When Bart returned the ball, Merry took plenty of time in delivering
it again. Then he tried the double-shoot once more, but threw the
sphere high over Bart’s head.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hodge, instantly comprehending that all
was not right.

Frank shook his head, but he threw no more double curves. He passed a
high one up to Hanson, who hit it into the diamond. Browning tried to
field the ball, but it got through him, and Hanson reached the bag.

“Rotten!” cried the crowd.

The coacher warned Hanson to play safe, and Jack, the second-baseman
of the Stars, advanced to the plate. Using such skill as he could
command with his bad arm, Merry struck Jack out. Hanson had been
forced to cling to first.

Maloney followed as a batter. On the first ball pitched Hanson
started for second. Maloney slashed at the ball with a wide swing
that was intended to baffle Hodge in his throw to second.

Bart put the ball down like a bullet. Hanson was coming fast, and he
slid feet first.

It is possible that Rattleton thought of Hanson’s spikes, for he
changed his position and muffed the ball. Hanson slid under and was
safe.

“Hard luck, Harry!” exclaimed Frank. “You had him if you’d held it!”

“Somebody ought to shoot me!” muttered Rattleton, his face red as a
beet.

Frank gave Maloney one close to his hands, and the batter hit it down
to Ready. Jack picked the ball up and turned to see where Hanson
was. Hanson was about three yards off second, so Ready sent the ball
across the diamond to first. The instant Ready threw, Hanson streaked
it for third.

Maloney could run like a deer, and he beat the throw to first.

Browning did not wait for a decision, but sent the ball back to
Ready, who, seeing Hanson coming, had leaped to cover third. The
throw was not accurate, and Jack was pulled off third about two feet,
which was enough to save Hanson, who slid round behind him and was
safe.

The Stars were fighting for the game. It looked rather dangerous now,
but Frank did not let that worry him. Had his wrist been in good
condition, he would have found a way to stop the run-getting in short
order. But he could not use the double-shoot, and so was compelled to
rely on his support when the opposing batters hit him hard. And his
support had not been of the first class, except during the first of
the game.

Corrigan was a good waiter, but Merry started in to compel him to
hit. Maloney went down to second on the first ball pitched.

Hodge threw like a bullet for second. Carson cut in as if intending
to take the throw, and this kept Hanson from trying to score.

Seeing Hanson did not try to go home, Carson let the ball pass, and
Rattleton caught it, putting it on to Maloney.

“Out at second!” declared the umpire.

This was team-work. Had Hanson started for home, Carson would have
caught the ball and driven it straight to the plate to cut him
off there. The opposing team had fancied Carson meant to take the
ball, anyhow, which is an old trick. In this they had been fooled
completely.

Two men were out. Another out without a score would give the game to
Merriwell.

Corrigan looked anxious, and Frank tried to work him for a
strike-out. Merry got himself into a bad hole, and was compelled to
put the ball over. Corrigan hit it fairly and drove it out.

As two men were out already, Hanson did not pause at third, but came
home immediately. Swiftwing was forced to make a hard run, and then,
as if to offset his former brilliant catch, he muffed the ball.

The score was tied. Corrigan was on first. Dorrity ran in from the
coaching-lines and got a bat.

“Score on my hit!” he cried.

Frank gave him a drop, and he let it pass. Then Merry tried a high
one, and Dorrity drove it along the ground. The ball went to Carson,
struck Berlin’s feet, and flew away off to one side. Ready raced for
it, got it, and, in spite of Frank’s warning cry, overthrew to first.

Corrigan came on to third while Browning was after the ball. Bruce
got it, and fancied he could nail Corrigan before the runner could
make third. In his great haste he threw wild, also, which let
Corrigan come home with the winning run.

Merriwell was defeated. And the defeat was due mainly to the ragged
support given him by his team.




                              CHAPTER V.

                          FRANK’S CHALLENGE.


“My poor heart is broken!” sighed Jack Ready, as Merriwell’s team
gathered in Frank’s room at one of the leading hotels in the city.
“Alas and alack!”

“It was ‘alack’ of something, else we’d won,” said Merry.

“A lack of ball-playing,” growled Hodge. “We played like a lot of
wood-choppers.”

“Oh, Bart, how can you say so?” exclaimed Ready. “We didn’t make more
than fifteen or twenty errors and bad plays.”

“Wasn’t my throw to third a bird?” grunted Browning, who was
stretched on a comfortable couch.

“It was a match to my throw to first,” said Jack. “They made a
beautiful pair of birds.”

“And to think we have met defeat at last!” moaned Greg Carker. “But
it is ever thus. Now we can see how others feel when we beat them.
This strife for the mastery in this world is a monstrous evil. We see
it every day, and it makes brutes and monsters of mankind. The time
will come when such strife will cease and perfect harmony will exist;
but never can this harmony be known until there has been a great
social upheaval--never until----”

“Here comes the earthquake!” cried several of the party.

Greg looked pained.

“Some day the earthquake will come,” he said, “and you, like
thousands of others, will be entirely unprepared for it.”

“It was a gug-gug-gol-ding shame to lose that game!” stuttered Gamp.
“We had it all nun-nun-nailed down once.”

“I was in poor condition to pitch to-day,” said Frank.

“Nay, nay!” disputed Ready. “It was not that, gentle captain. The
team was in poor condition to support any kind of a pitcher. It was
one of our ragged days.”

“But I could not use the double-shoot as much as I ought.”

“You can’t play the whole game alone,” muttered Hodge.

“Methinks he has more than once,” said Ready.

“I helped lose the game,” sighed Rattleton. “I feel like hagging my
bed--I mean bagging my head!”

“These people will crow over us here,” growled Browning.

“I fancy some spondulicks changed hands on the result of that game,”
observed Ready. “The wicked gamester is abroad in the land, and
he----”

“Tried to buy Merry off,” finished Hodge. “The whelp did buy the
umpire.”

“But we cast that umpire forth, and his influence was felt no longer
upon us,” put in Ready. “We can’t lay the blame on the umpire.”

“I won’t get over this in a month!” muttered Hodge bitterly. “It was
a hard game to lose.”

“Lul-lul-let’s challenge them to another gug-game!” cried Gamp. “We
can dud-dud-do ’em next time!”

“Fellows,” said Frank, “we lost the mascot of the nine, and that’s
what ailed us to-day. We played a bad game, but it might have been
different if Dick had been with us.”

“Dick was a mascot,” agreed Browning. “Why, that little wizard can
pitch ball like a veteran.”

“And Old Joe Crowfoot,” said Frank; “he was not with us. If he had
been on hand to powwow round the home plate before the game, he might
have put something into the team that seemed lacking.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever see that old varmint again?” said Jack
questioningly.

“I think we shall,” nodded Merry. “He’s recovering from the wound he
received, and I do not believe he will leave Dick when he gets well.”

“Are you going to bother with that soiled old scarecrow?” asked Jack.

“For Dick’s sake, I shall.”

“He’s made you no end of trouble,” declared Hodge. “It was he who
induced Dick to rebel.”

“But he has learned his lesson. I saw that he was placed where he
could have the very best care and nursing, and I left Dick with him.”

“Don’t expect gratitude from an onery redskin,” said Bart.

Then he looked round quickly and gave a breath of relief on
discovering that Swiftwing was not in the room.

“I confess,” said Frank, “that Old Joe’s skin seemed chock full of
peskiness, but he has taught Dick many things that no white man
could. If I can get the false notions out of the boy’s head, he will
be a perfect wonder in time.”

It was only after the death of Frank Merriwell’s father in the West
that Merry had learned that he had a half-brother. In his will Mr.
Merriwell imposed upon Frank the care of Dick, who had been brought
up in the wilds of the West, in the care of Juan Delores, a Spanish
refugee. The boy’s constant companion and mentor had been an old
Indian, known as Joe Crowfoot. It had been with great difficulty that
Frank had forced his young brother to accept him as his guardian, and
the boy’s rebellion against Frank’s plans to remove him from his wild
life had been encouraged by the old Indian, who loved the wild boy
as he would have loved a son. Merry’s powerful will, however, had
finally won both the boy and the Indian to him.

“What do you intend to do with Dick?” questioned Carson. “Will you
send him to Yale?”

“I hope to; but first he will have to put in some years at school.”

“Where will you send him to school?”

“At Fardale.”

“That’s the place!” nodded Hodge. “He’ll get some of the kinks taken
out of him there.”

“One thing fills me with extreme sadness,” said Ready. “That is that
the first umpire did not receive his medicine from the crowd to-day.”

“That crowd was rooting for us before the game finished,” laughed
Frank.

“And they seemed to feel bad because we lost,” said Rattleton. “We
made some friends.”

“For the love of goodness, Merry!” exploded Ready; “is there no way
we can get square? Can’t we tackle those fellows again and wipe up
the earth with them?”

“If Dick were here----”

“We won games before we knew anything about Dick.”

But, strange to say, Frank seemed to feel that the presence of his
young brother was needed in order for them to win.

“I’m not going to talk about it any more,” said Carson. “I am going
to get out of this hotel and take a walk.”

The others seemed to feel like doing something of the sort, and they
left the room in a body, descending to the office of the hotel, where
Frank called for their mail. There happened to be letters for several
of the party. Merry received one, which he opened and began to read
at once.

As Frank was reading his letter he heard two men talking near at
hand. One of them was saying:

“It would draw a big crowd, and there would be money in it. Why don’t
you get Merriwell’s team for another game, Wilson?”

“What’s the use?” said a voice that Frank recognized as that of the
manager of the Stars. “Those fellows put up the best game they are
capable of to-day, and we’d simply beat them to death next time. I
don’t want to play any poor games, as that will spoil baseball in
this town. The Stars are drawing well now.”

“I know a man who says he’ll bet five hundred even that you can’t
beat Merriwell again.”

“He’s crazy!”

“No. It’s Livingstone.”

“Why, Hazen will give him two to one.”

“But Hazen has queered himself to-day. The crowd is onto him. It’s
current to-night that he tried to bribe Merriwell, and that, failing
in this, he bought Derring.”

“How could he buy Derring?”

“He made signs to him.”

“Bah! How did Derring know what his signs meant?”

“I have heard it said that Derring has been bought before.”

“Don’t believe that rot!”

“Well, I know that he made some terrible decisions, and he would have
been mobbed if Merriwell hadn’t protected him.”

“He’s stubborn, and he would not give in--that’s all. I don’t think
he really meant to rob the other team.”

“The crowd thought so.”

“Oh, well, I doubt if Merriwell would dare play us again, even if we
offered him a game.”

“That is where you make a mistake, Mr. Wilson.”

Frank Merriwell was the speaker, and he stepped forward, having
crushed in his hand the letter he had been reading.

“Merriwell!” exclaimed Wilson.

“Yes,” nodded Merry. “I happened to hear some of your conversation
just now. I trust you will pardon me, but I was curious when you
spoke my name. You have said that I would fear to meet your team
again. You are wrong. Not only am I not afraid, but I now challenge
you to play us another game day after to-morrow, the winners to take
the entire gate-money. I shall publish my challenge in the morning
papers.”

“Then,” said Wilson warmly, “we’ll play you, and we won’t give you a
run. You are due for a shutout, Mr. Merriwell.”

Several of Merry’s friends had heard him make the challenge, and they
were eager to know why he had done so. As they left the hotel, Frank
said:

“I have received a letter from Dick.”

“Your brother? What does he say?”

“He’s on his way. He will reach Omaha in the morning.”

“Ah, ha!” cried Ready. “Now I understand why you flung the gauntlet
in the teeth of Manager Wilson. You believe we can do his team, with
the aid of Richard.”

“Exactly. Dick is bringing Old Crowfoot along, and we’ll get into the
Stars in great shape.”

“Will you pitch him against these heavy-hitters?”

“I have not decided on that. If my wrist were right, I’d not think of
it.”

“Don’t think of it, anyway!” begged Hodge. “Pitch the game yourself,
Merry, and we’ll support you next time.”

“That’s what we will, most mighty one!” declared Ready. “We’ll back
you up like a stone wall.”

Within a short distance of the hotel they came face to face with
Derring, the treacherous umpire. He was accompanied by Hazen, the
gambler.

The moment he saw Merriwell, Derring’s face flamed, and he uttered an
exclamation of anger. He had been drinking, and he made straight for
Frank.

“I want to see you!” he exclaimed. “T believe you gave the crowd the
impression that I was trying to do something crooked to-day. I have
a score to settle with you.”

Frank looked at the rascal in surprise and contempt.

“You have more nerve than any man I ever saw,” he declared. “Your
work on the field to-day spoke for itself. I did not have to give the
impression.”

“But you did it, just the same. You got the crowd down on me.”

“How?”

“By kicking against my decision.”

“I kicked because I was not willing to be robbed.”

“Then you say I was robbing you?”

“Yes!”

“You are a----”

“Stop!” rang out Frank’s voice. “Don’t say it! I protected you from
the mob to-day after you did me a dirty turn, but I’ll not hold my
hand in case you call me a liar!”

“If you lifted a hand on me,” said Derring, his eyes glaring and his
hand moving toward his hip, “I’d shoot you like a dog!”

“If you were quick enough you might, but I doubt if you would.”

Bart Hodge was ready to spring at Derring.

“You had better get out of this town!” grated the umpire. “I give you
warning that it isn’t safe for you to stay here!”

“I do not mind your warnings. I shall stay here until after the next
game with the Stars.”

“The next game?”

“Yes. We play again day after to-morrow.”

“Well, you’ll be pie. Say, Hazen, that will be your chance to make
a stake. Bet all your money on the Stars. The next game will be a
walkover.”

“All of that,” nodded Hazen.

“You thought so to-day, sir,” said Frank; “but at one time you were
so worried that you tried to bribe me to throw the game. When you
failed, you did bribe Derring.”

“It’s false!”

“It’s true! But we’ll win the next game, for all of your crooked work
and for all of the umpiring.”

“Just so,” chirped Ready. “We’ll win in a walk, and nothing can stop
us. The Stars shall fall, and great will be the fall thereof.”

“Come,” said Frank, to the others; “let’s move on. I do not care to
be seen talking to these men.”

That cut both Derring and Hazen.

“Go on!” growled the latter. “I’ll bet my last dollar you lose.”

“Then you’ll be a subject for public charity directly after the
game,” assured Ready.

Frank was about to move along when Derring insolently blocked his way
and shoved against him. Quick as a flash Merry whirled and grasped
the man. Then he gave the rascal a shake that yanked him from beneath
his hat.

Derring snarled and struck at Merry. Frank’s patience was exhausted,
and he could not hold back the return blow. His fist caught the man
under the ear, and down to the sidewalk dropped Mr. Derring.

“Police!” cried Hazen; but he reached for his hip pocket.

“Don’t draw!” warned Merry.

Hazen did not heed. Out came his hand, and it held a revolver.

Instantly Merry’s foot flew out, and the toe of his boot struck the
hand of the man, sending the revolver flying into the air.

As the weapon came down Merry caught it, snapped it open, casting out
the cartridges, and politely returned it to its owner.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Here is your gun. But I believe it is
a dangerous thing for you to have round. You might shoot somebody
with it.”

Hazen was frothing. Derring struggled up and reached for his hip.

“Look out!” cried Hodge.

Frank was on the alert. He leaped on Derring, twisted his hand from
his hip, jerked out the revolver himself, and sent the weapon flying
across the street.

“Some of you Western people are extremely careless with your
shooting-irons,” he observed. “Come on, fellows.”

Then, accompanied by his friends, he walked away.




                             CHAPTER VI.

                           A BOY OF NERVE.


Dick Merriwell did arrive in Omaha the following morning, and he
brought Old Joe Crowfoot with him. The old redskin was looking thin
and weak, and the expression of his wrinkled face was as inscrutable
as ever.

“How!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand to Merriwell, as Frank met
them at the station.

“How are you, Crowfoot?” exclaimed Merry.

“Heap better,” was the answer.

“That is good. Has the wound healed?”

“Some.”

“Are you strong?”

“Not yet; get so heap soon.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you. I took pains to have everything done for
your comfort and to aid in bringing you round as soon as possible.”

“Heap much good!” said the old fellow. “Joe him not forget.”

“Joe will never forget,” assured Dick. “He has told me so many
times. He thought at first you were the one who shot him, but now he
knows better. We have talked it all over while he has been getting
stronger, and he has decided that it is best for me to go with you
and do just what you say.”

“Heap so,” nodded Old Joe. “Injun Heart your brother, Steady Hand.
You take him now and make him your way. Old Joe him done all he can.”

“And Dick owes you much for what you have done. But where are you
going, Joe?”

“Back to mountains--Joe go by himself.”

“That’s it!” cried Dick. “He won’t promise to stay with me.”

Frank placed a hand on the arm of the old Indian.

“Crowfoot,” he said earnestly, “I wish you to stay with Dick. I will
take you along, and it shall cost you nothing.”

“White man’s way not Injun’s way.”

“That is true, but you may do as you please.”

“No good.”

“Why not? I will let no one bother you. I give you my word, and my
word is good. Isn’t it?”

“Crowfoot him believe Steady Hand.”

“That is all I want. You are old, Joe, and I will see that you are
cared for. I feel it a duty. You shall have such clothes as you need,
a shelter, and plenty of tobacco.”

“Much good!”

“And you shall see Dick every day. You may be able to teach him many
things more. It is your duty to him. You are to see that I do not
spoil him by making him too much like a white man. I am his brother,
but you shall be his father. Will you do it?”

Old Joe hesitated, looked Frank keenly in the face, as if seeking to
ascertain his sincerity, then said:

“Joe him do it!”

“Then that is settled!” exclaimed Frank, in satisfaction.

“When Joe he want to go him go.”

“You shall go whenever you like.”

Dick was delighted by this arrangement.

“Thank you, Frank!” he exclaimed. “Thank you! thank you! Now, if I
could only have Felicia----”

“Perhaps you may.”

Dick’s eyes sparkled.

“How can that be possible?” he asked. “She is far away.”

“But her father must understand that the time has come when she
should attend school somewhere. Her mother is dead, and can teach her
no longer. Mr. Delores may instruct her in Spanish, but she should
have a different tutor. I hope to induce her father to bring her East
and put her into school.”

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Him no do it. Him have heap many enemy. Him
stay where him be.”

“We shall see,” said Merry. “I am glad you are here, Dick, for we
have missed you on the nine.”

“Missed me?” said the boy, his eyes dancing. “Why, you do not really
need me on the nine. You simply played me in order that I might get
experience and practise.”

“Who told you so?”

“I don’t know. Anyhow, I thought so.”

“Well, we have played a game without you and lost it. The Stars, of
this city, trimmed us yesterday.”

“Oh!” cried Dick, in amazement. “How could they do it?”

“They did it very handsomely.”

“I don’t believe it was square! I don’t believe they could beat you!”

“They did, Dick.”

“And you pitched?”

“With that.”

Frank held up his wrist, about which there was a bandage.

“If you had been here, Dick,” he said, “they could not have won the
game.”

This was praise, indeed, and the heart of the boy glowed. It was fine
to know that Frank had so much confidence in him.

“I am here now,” he said.

“And we play them again to-morrow.”

“Good! good! We’ll win! You really want me to play, Frank?”

“I want you to play, and I want Old Joe on the bench. The combination
will give us good luck.”

“Old Joe him go to see Dick play. Him great little boy at um
baseball.”

“Then it is all up with the Omaha Stars,” laughed Frank. “We’ll beat
them for sure.”

There was a burst of coarse, sarcastic laughter near at hand, and
Frank turned quickly, to see Hazen and Derring there. He looked at
the men intently, and they returned his stare in a most insolent
manner.

“What do you think of that, Hazen?” laughed Jim Derring. “Merriwell
thinks he’ll be able to win the game just because he has that kid to
put on the team.”

“I think Merriwell is an idiot,” rumbled Hazen.

A flash of fire came into Dick Merriwell’s dark eyes, and he sprang
toward the men.

“Who are you?” he cried. “What do you know about baseball?”

“I knew all about the game before you was born, kid,” said the
treacherous umpire.

“Well, you don’t know enough to be a gentleman!” flashed Dick, in his
fearless manner.

“What’s that? Why, you little runt, I’ll shake you outer them
clothes!”

“Try it! I don’t know who you are, but----”

“Don’t talk to him, Dick,” said Frank, stepping up. “He is nobody
but a common rascal who tried to sell the game to this other man
yesterday. He was umpiring, and his dirty work made the crowd so
angry that it came near mobbing him.”

“It was your dirty kicking that gave the crowd the impression that I
was roasting,” snarled Derring. “The Stars will bury you to-morrow.
You’ll not get a score.”

“Not a score,” growled Hazen.

“I’ll bet a thousand dollars we beat the Stars!” cried Dick, boylike.

“I’ll take the bet!” came from Hazen. “Put up your money.”

“If I had it, I’d put it up. Frank, let me have the money--do! You
may take it out of my share if I lose. But I can’t lose! Won’t you
let me have the money?”

Merry shook his head.

“I do not believe in betting, Dick,” he said. “It is gambling, and
gambling has ruined many good men.”

Hazen and Derring laughed scornfully.

“You’re a squealer, Merriwell!” declared the stout sporting man.
“That’s what’s the matter with you! You lack nerve!”

“That’s not true!” flung back Dick. “Anybody knows better than that!”

“It is true. If he had the least nerve, he would back you up. I took
your bet.”

“Knowing you were talking to a mere boy who had no right to make
such a bet. It is like you. Anybody else would not have taken him in
earnest.”

“Squealer!” sneered Derring.

“Let me have the money, Frank--please!” entreated Dick.

A sudden resolve seized on Merry.

“I’ll let you have it on one condition,” he said.

“Name it.”

“You are not to take the winning yourself, but are to donate it to
some charitable institution in this city.”

To this Dick immediately agreed, and then Frank said:

“Mr. Hazen, my brother will meet you an hour from now in the office
of the hotel where we are stopping, and we’ll place the money in the
hands of the proprietor.”

“If you fail to show up,” said Hazen, “I’ll get up on the bleachers
to-morrow and tell everybody how you squealed.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll not fail to show up.”

Then Merry led the way to the place where a cab was waiting. The
ex-Yale man, the boy, and the old Indian entered the cab and were
driven away.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                            READY TO PLAY.


Frank’s challenge and the acceptance of Manager Wilson had appeared
in the Omaha papers, and the result was that a great crowd gathered
at the baseball-grounds the afternoon of the day on which the Merries
were again to meet the home team.

The Stars were first on the field, and they were given a round of
applause. Their practise-work was snappy and aroused no small amount
of enthusiasm. Then came Merriwell’s team, trotting out onto the
field as the Stars came in.

“Hooray!” shouted a man. “There they are! They’re the boys who play
clean baseball!”

The applause received by Frank and his men plainly showed they were
favorites.

“Look at the kid!” cried somebody. “Why, are they going to use that
boy?”

“They must be crazy!”

“He can’t play ball in this company.”

“He isn’t over fourteen.”

“He’s going in short.”

“Where’s the short-stop they had yesterday?”

“There he goes into right field. The right-fielder is on the bench,
I reckon.”

“I’m afraid this game won’t be much like the game yesterday. Our boys
will have a snap.”

This seemed to be the fear of most of the spectators, and yet
Merriwell’s team received applause for its sharp practise-work.

Carker was batting to the infield, while one of the Stars batted to
the outfield. Greg put the first ball down to Dick. It was a slow
one, and the boy handled it successfully, throwing over to first on
a line.

“That’s pretty good,” said a man.

“But it was easy,” asserted another. “Wait till a hot one comes down.”

A hot one did come down when Greg again batted to Dick, and the boy
jumped in front of it, stopped it handsomely, handled it, whistled it
across, and won a generous hand from the witnesses.

“I believe the kid can play!” cried a man.

“But he’ll never be able to hit Batch,” asserted another.

The time for the game to be called approached, and now the umpire
appeared. Frank called his men in, and Dorrity courteously gave him
the choice of innings.

“We’ll start with our outs,” said Merry, and they again entered the
field.

“Play ball!”

The voice of the umpire rang out. The batter stepped up to the
plate. The crowd settled down to watch the fun.

The batting-orders of the teams were as follows:

     MERRIES.                     OMAHA STARS.

  Ready, 3d b.                  Teller, cf.
  Carson, rf.                   Skew, ss.
  Hodge, c.                     O’Grady, lf.
  Gamp, cf.                     Hanson, c.
  F. Merriwell, p., ss.         Jack, 2d b.
  Browning, 1st b.              Maloney, rf.
  Swiftwing, lf.                Corrigan, 3d b.
  Rattleton, 2d b.              Dorrity, 1st b.
  D. Merriwell, ss., p.         Batch, p.

“Remember what we did to him last time, Bill, old boy,” cried
Dorrity, as Teller stepped up to the plate. “Get against the first
one he puts over.”

Teller grinned.

It was Frank’s practise to put the first ball over, and he did so.
Teller did not wait. He cracked the ball hard, and drove it like a
bullet straight at Dick Merriwell. It seemed too hot for the boy to
handle, and many expected to see Dick try to dodge it. Instead of
dodging, however, the lad took the ball, though it made him stagger,
and held it.

“Batter out!” announced the umpire.

“Well! well! well!” roared that familiar hoarse voice. “Did you see
that? How did he do it?”

“Simplest thing in the world, my good people,” said Jack Ready. “Wait
till you see him eat grounders.”

“Pretty, Dick--pretty,” smiled Frank.

Dick laughed.

“It burned my hands,” he admitted; “but it felt good.”

From the moment Frank heard Dick say that that hot ball burned his
hands and yet felt good, he never had a doubt concerning the ability
of the lad to make a ball-player. The ball-player who is valuable
likes the feeling of a ball that comes hot into his clutch, and he is
not afraid of being hurt. The moment a man becomes afraid of being
hurt he begins to go down-hill as a player, and he is liable to
become utterly useless.

Skew was confident when he came up to the plate.

“It was an accident,” he said. “Everybody can hit Merriwell. I’ll get
a hit.”

Frank tried to work him, but Skew had a good eye for the ball, and
Merry was forced to put it over. Then the batter hit the sphere hard,
and it went spinning along the ground just inside the third-base line.

Ready jumped, flung himself forward, thrust down his right hand, and
got the ball. It was a marvelous stop, but Jack dropped on one knee
in his effort, and Skew was running like the wind to first.

Up sprang Ready, and he whistled the ball across the diamond with the
speed of a bullet. Browning smothered it, though forced to stretch at
full length on the ground.

“Out at first!” declared Morrisy.

Skew started to raise a kick, but the crowd howled at him, and he
closed up.

“Talk about luck!” said O’Grady, as he marched up to the plate. “They
can’t keep it up.”

“Put them right over, Merriwell,” cried Rattleton. “You have eight
men playing with you.”

“Put one over--put it over!” nodded O’Grady. “I’ll drive it out of
the lot.”

Frank accepted the invitation. O’Grady hit it fair, and it went
bounding along the ground in a nasty manner between Ready and Dick.

Jack jumped for it, but could not get his hand on the ball. He
thought it had gone past for a hit when he turned and saw Dick
straightening up with the ball in his hand.

The boy had made another marvelous stop, and he sent the sphere
across the diamond to first in time to get the runner.

Three men were out, and the Merries came trotting in from the field.

“Great support, fellows!” said Frank. “That’s what I want to-day. I
don’t believe I can throw much of anything in the way of curves. If
you continue to back me up like that, the game is ours.”

Ready had his arm over Dick Merriwell’s shoulders.

“He is the baseball wonder of the age!” Jack asserted, in his
laughing way. “Up to date, I have regarded myself as it, but the
laurels have been torn from my fair brow by a boy. I am green with
jealousy.”

“You’re green, anyhow,” said Browning.

“There’s the man I bet with!” exclaimed Dick.

Hazen and Derring were sitting on the bleachers directly behind the
visiting players’ bench.

“I hear he put up a large wad on the game,” said Jack. “I think he
will lose his little roll to-day, all right, all right.”

As they approached the bench a singular figure rose from somewhere.
It was Old Joe Crowfoot, wrapped in his dirty red blanket and smoking
his black pipe.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed, his eyes fastened on Dick. “Injun Heart him
catch bullet next! Heap good playing!”

Then he sat on the bench beside Dick, of whom he was very proud,
though he concealed his pride pretty well.

Ready selected a bat and advanced to the plate.

“Kindly accommodate me by giving me a straight one, Mr. Batch,” he
urged. “You know I like you, and I won’t do a thing to you--if I get
a chance.”

“Here it is,” said Batch.

But it was a rise, and Jack struck under it a foot.

“I think you are a prevaricator!” said the batter quickly. “I regret
very much to apply such a title to you, but it fits like your skin.”

“Well, try the next one,” said Batch.

Jack declined, however, for it was a wide out curve, and a ball was
called.

“That makes us even,” said Ready. “Now we’ll begin over.”

The next one was too close, and Jack let it pass.

“Ball two!” cried the umpire.

“Ah-ha!” said Jack. “I’m getting a lead on you.”

Batch set his teeth and put in a drop. Jack struck over it.

“The advantage is mine,” said the pitcher.

“See if you can keep it,” said Ready.

Then Batch tried a high one, and the third ball was called.

“Ha! ha!” said Ready. “Things are coming my way.”

Batch looked resolute, and his next one seemed like a straight ball
over the very heart of the plate. Ready went after it, but it proved
to be an elusive drop, and was not touched.

“Batter is out!” said the umpire.

Batch laughed at Ready, who retired in a very dejected manner to the
bench.

Carson came next, and he waited till Batch put one over. Then Berlin
hit the ball hard, but drove it into the air, so that O’Grady easily
captured it.

Two men were out, and the crowd began to realize that the game was
rather swift.

Hodge looked grim and resolute as he advanced to the plate. He had
his favorite stick, and Gamp called:

“Cuc-cuc-cuc-come, now, Hodge, pup-pup-pup-put us into the
gug-gug-gug-game! Give us a regular Texas Leaguer!”

Bart was a splendid hitter when in good form, and the outfielders
moved back a little, while the infield played deep. Noticing this,
Bart suddenly sprang a surprise by bunting the first ball pitched.

The ball rolled down toward third, and Bart was off like a dart for
first. The third-baseman was too far away to get it, and the pitcher
was too astonished. By the time the catcher got the ball Bart was too
near first for a throw to do any good.

“Well! well! well!” cried Ready, as he trotted down to coach. “Why
didn’t I think of that? It’s just as easy!”

Batch growled like a dog with a sore ear.

“Couldn’t get a hit any other way,” he said.

Now, Gamp was another heavy hitter, and surely there was no danger
that he would bunt. At least, everybody thought so.

Joe, however, was up to snuff, and he saw the Stars were expecting
him to swing hard. Thus it happened that, as the ball was pitched,
Gamp suddenly shortened his hold on the bat, bunted handsomely, and
went prancing down to first, while Hodge raced to second.

Hanson was swearing as he dove after the ball. This time Batch went
for it, too, and they collided, the ball rolling off to one side as
one of them kicked it.

Bart fancied he saw his opportunity, and he sped for third. Hanson
recovered, made a froglike leap for the ball, got it, and threw to
third.

Hodge slid, but he was not near enough to reach the bag, and Corrigan
tagged him out.

Three men were retired, and neither side had scored in the first
inning.




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                           ONE TO NOTHING.


“But we gave ’em an awful fright,” laughed Ready, his apple cheeks
glowing.

“I was a fool to try to make third on that!” growled Hodge. “Somebody
ought to shoot me!”

“It is taking chances that win games,” said Merry. “If you had
reached that bag, we’d all have thought it clever work.”

Frank went into the box again. His arm was feeling bad, but he wished
to pitch as much of the game as possible, and he had no thought of
giving up for some time.

“Everybody hit him before,” said Dorrity. “Let’s make ’em good this
time.”

Hanson was the first man up, and he was breathing heavily. Frank
gave him no time to rest, but sent one straight over. Hanson hit it
and sent it sailing out for a short hit over the infield. Every one
thought it was a hit.

Dick Merriwell raced back after the ball, looking over his shoulder
to see it coming down. As it dropped, he jumped forward, caught it
with his right hand, dropped it, but caught it with his left before
it could fall to the ground.

As the boy turned, with the ball in his hands, the crowd rose up and
gave him a cheer.

“Did you ever see anything like that?” roared the man with the hoarse
voice.

“Never in my life!” shrieked one with a shrill voice.

“Kid, you’re all right!” came from various quarters.

“Who is that boy?” was the question that passed from lip to lip.

At length somebody found out the truth, and then men and women were
saying:

“Why, he’s Frank Merriwell’s brother! No wonder he can play ball!”

But Dick paid no attention to the crowd. His mind was on the game and
nothing else.

“A base-hit spoiled!” muttered Hanson, as he came in to the bench.
“He tumbled into that! Couldn’t do it again in a thousand years!”

“Of course not,” agreed Dorrity.

Jack was the next man to step up to the plate. By a strange chance,
he hit a ball that was almost the exact duplicate of the one batted
by Hanson.

“He won’t get that!”

But Dick raced for the ball as fast as he could, and when it came
down he clutched it and held on, though he struck his toe against
something and fell headlong. The boy dropped on his stomach, holding
the ball clear of the ground with both hands.

“Batter is out!” announced the umpire.

The grand stand and bleachers rose up and roared and roared. Never
before on those grounds had two such sensational catches been made in
succession.

It was some time before the admiring crowd grew quiet, and then Jack
Ready was heard saying:

“It was nothing but an accident, my good people; but he has a way of
making those accidents just as regularly as he eats his meals.”

“Why, he’s a corker!” howled the man with the hoarse voice. “He’s the
best short-stop I ever saw.”

“Thanks, silver-throated sir,” said Ready, doffing his cap. “He is
too modest to speak for himself. I am a trifle shy, but not quite as
shy as he is.”

“What do you think of that?” growled Hazen, his red face redder than
usual.

“I don’t know how it happened,” said Derring.

Wescott joined them and he said:

“The boy is a wonder! There is no doubt about it. If he keeps on
he’ll be playing in one of the big leagues before he is out of his
teens.”

“But, of course, he can’t hit any,” said Derring.

“I don’t know whether he can or not. We’ll wait and see.”

Maloney was the next man, and Frank smilingly gave him one over the
heart of the plate. Maloney cracked it straight out to Gamp, who
gathered it in, and the Merries came trotting in to the bench.

“Talk about support!” laughed Merry. “Why, you’re all marvels to-day!”

“The tender youth killed two hits in that inning,” said Ready.

Old Joe simply grunted at Dick, saying:

“Much good! Do him some more.”

Frank came to bat first, and Batch resolved to strike Merry out.
This, however, was not an easy thing to do, and Frank found the ball
for a safe single past second.

“Now, we’re off!” cried Carson. “We have started the ball. We’ll keep
it up.”

Browning came up to strike. As he did so, Frank touched his cap
twice. Bruce opened and closed his fingers on the bat-handle twice,
and thus a signal passed between them, which meant that Merry would
try to steal second on the second ball pitched.

The first one was wide, and the umpire called it a ball. The next
was fairly over, but Bruce swung with the deliberate intention of
missing it and bewildering the catcher. He swung hard and reeled back
a little, dropping his bat.

Merry was streaking it to second, and the catcher was baffled so
that he could not get the throw away in time to catch him. This was
team-work, and it counted in giving Merry second.

Now Browning was ready to nail the ball, and he hit the very next one
pitched. The ball went past Batch like a streak and out over second.
Frank dusted to third and Ready sent him home.

The center-fielder had stopped the ball and thrown to second. The
baseman there whirled and drove the ball to the plate, but he was a
moment too late, and Frank had scored.

Browning took second on the throw to the plate.

“Now, we’re in the game!” cried Ready. “That’s the kind of work! Keep
it up!”

The crowd cheered and cheered.

Swiftwing was the next batter, and he drove the ball hard. It looked
like a hit, and Browning went for third. When it was too late, Ready
saw the ball would be caught. He tried to turn Bruce back, but
O’Grady got the ball and threw it to second, thus making a double
play.

Batch had a return of confidence when he saw Rattleton face him, and
he proceeded to strike Harry out in short order. But the Merries had
the lead.

Could they hold it?

Again Frank went into the box, and again his support was of the
finest order. He did not strike out a man, but the first three men up
went out in order, two flying to the outfield and one being thrown
out at first by Dick.

Dick was the first one to come to bat in the last of the third.
Batch thought the boy must be easy, and he put a swift one right over.

Dick met it, and the ball went out for a pretty single. On first,
Dick touched his cap once as Ready stood up to the plate. In return,
Ready opened and closed his hands once on the handle of the bat.

Then, when the first ball was pitched, Dick went down to second with
such speed that the spectators gasped. Hanson threw to stop the boy,
but Dick was there a long time in advance of the ball.

“Pretty stealing!” cried Ready.

“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe. “When Injun him steal, white man say bad
stealing. Heap different in baseball.”

Ready did his best to get a hit, but Batch struck him out.

Carson was anxious for a hit. In fact, he was too anxious. He swung
at two that would have been balls, and two strikes were called.

Getting a good lead, Dick stole third on the next pitched ball, while
Carson struck out.

Hodge was determined to bring the boy home. He picked out a pretty
one and hit it hard. The ball went on a line into the hands of
Dorrity, and Dick was left on third.

The spectators realized by this time that they were seeing a game of
baseball that was the genuine thing.

For the fourth time, Frank went into the box. He tried a drop to
start with, and Teller led off with a hit. That drop hurt Frank’s
wrist, and he decided that he could not use it any more.

Skew got a good one and dropped out a scratch hit that advanced
Teller to second. Then O’Grady came up and smashed a hot one at Dick.
The boy managed to handle it, but saw he could not get either Teller
or Skew, which led him to throw to first. O’Grady was out, but the
Stars had a man on second and third.

Hanson had fire in his eye when he came to the plate. He got a good
one and sent a long fly into right field. Teller held third till the
fly was caught. The instant it dropped into the hands of Carson he
scooted for home.

Carson threw to second, but Rattleton found it useless to throw home,
and Skew was too near third. The Stars had tied the score.

Two men were out, and Skew was on third. With Jack up, it seemed
possible that another run would come in, which would put the Stars in
the lead.

Had Frank been able to throw the double-shoot the scoring would have
stopped beyond a doubt; but his wrist was so bad that he could not
get the full effect of ordinary curves.

Merry was cautious, and Jack waited till three balls were called.
Then Frank put one right over, and the batter lifted it.

Swiftwing had a long run for the ball, but he made his legs fly, and
he took it as it came down. The inning was over, but the score was
tied--one to one.




                             CHAPTER IX.

                          THE WINNING RUN.


In vain the Merries tried to send a man round the bags in the last of
the fourth. The Stars played fast ball, and nobody got past second
base.

Then came a surprise, for Frank Merriwell retired to short and his
brother took his place to pitch. Frank had set Dick to warming up as
soon as they came in to the bench, and the boy was ready.

“Oh, what a picnic!” cried Maloney, as he came up to the bat. “It’s
all over now!”

Dick closed his lips firmly, took Bart’s signal, nodded, and prepared
to deliver the ball.

Maloney slashed at the very first one, which came sailing up to the
plate in a dead manner, and the bat did not come within a foot of the
ball.

“Oh, look at his speed!” cried some of the spectators, in derision.

“Put ’em over! put ’em over!” snarled Maloney. “This is no monkey
show!”

“Take the gentleman at bat off the grounds,” cried Ready. “He’ll
think differently after he gets through hitting this time.”

Dick had nerve, for he pitched the next ball in exactly the same
manner, and again Maloney failed to touch it.

“Two strikes!” announced the umpire.

Then something happened. The next ball came in with the speed of the
wind. Maloney thought it was a straight one, and he struck hard at
it. Just as the batter swung it seemed that the ball took a strange
upward jump in the air, and the third strike had been made.

“Batter is out!” said the umpire, as the ball plunked into the mitt
of Bart Hodge and remained there.

“Hooraw!” bellowed the man with the hoarse voice. “Why, the little
divvil can pitch, just as well as he can do anything else! Did you
ever seen his match?”

“What do you think of that?” growled Hazen; “He has some speed.”

“And a mighty queer rise ball,” nodded Wescott.

“They’ll get on to him, don’t worry,” said Derring. “He is too young
to pitch in this class. We are sure of winning, so your money is
safe, Hazen.”

But Hazen was not perfectly easy.

Corrigan followed Maloney, and Dick started with the jump ball, at
which the batter slashed hard.

“Throw that again,” invited Corrigan.

“Here it is,” said the boy, and, true to his word, he put it over.

“Two strikes!” cried the umpire, as Corrigan failed to connect.

“You little imp!” exclaimed the batter, his face very red. “Give me
one more!”

But Dick threw a drop for the third one, and Corrigan struck over it
a foot.

Two batters were out.

“Here! here!” cried Ready to Dick. “Stop that, will you? You’re not
giving us a chance. I’m getting tired doing nothing.”

“Let the poor fellows hit one once in a while,” urged Rattleton.

But Dick did not seem inclined to obey, for he made the same kind
of a mark of Dorrity, striking three men out in the first inning he
pitched.

In their half of the fifth the Merries could not score, and the tally
remained tied.

The pitching of Dick Merriwell during the rest of the game was the
wonder of all who witnessed it. The boy had all kinds of speed,
perfect control, and a cool head. His manner of mixing fast and slow
balls bothered the batters, while not one of them could touch his
jump ball.

Inning after inning passed, and still neither side made a run.

Hazen was anxious, and, at last, he became desperate.

“Confound that boy!” he snarled. “Is he going to be the cause of my
losing a pot of money?”

“It looks like it,” confessed Wescott.

“Hold on,” urged Derring. “He can’t keep it up. Something will
happen.”

And so the desperate gambler made no move, hoping all the time that
something would happen.

Straight through to the ninth Dick pitched without permitting the
home team to get another run. In the ninth he used the jump ball and
the drop, and not a man fouled the ball, much less hit it out.

Rattleton was the first hitter for the Merries in the ninth. Batch
had Harry’s weak spot, and he fanned him.

Then came Dick. Now, Batch had not fanned the boy during the game,
and he was determined to do so this time. His determination led him
to give the lad his first on balls, Dick waiting prettily.

Again a signal passed between Dick and Ready, and the boy stole
second on the second ball pitched.

Ready hit the next ball pitched. It was a fly to right field, and
Maloney got it. But Dick held second on the fly, running after it was
caught, and got third.

Two men were out, but a hit meant the winning run. Bart drove into
the first ball pitched, sending it on the ground past second, and
Dick came racing home, while the crowd rose up and roared its
applause.

Hazen had lost his bets.




                             CHAPTER X.

                       A DESPERATE SITUATION.


Merry and his team had reached Minneapolis, and, having no game on
hand, decided to witness the contest between the home team and St.
Paul. The game proved an exciting one.

The visitors had a big crowd of fans with them, and they put up a
great fight for the game. Foley, the pitcher for St. Paul, had been
much harder hit than Webber, of the home team, but his support, up to
the sixth inning, had been masterly, and Minneapolis had been unable
to squeeze in more than one run. St. Paul had not scored.

In the first half of the sixth, with two men out and no one on the
bases, Foley went to the bat and hit the ball hard to short. The
short-stop fumbled and then made a swift throw to first, but Foley
was a good runner and he made a mad try for the bag.

Had Foley been an “old stager” he would not have tried the trick he
did; but he was a new man from some Eastern college. He flung himself
headlong at the bag.

Then suddenly there was great excitement in the grand stand and on
the bleachers, and loud cries were heard of:

“Foley is hurt!”

“Give him a runner!”

“Prince spiked him!”

“Shame! Shame!”

“That’s dirty ball-playing!”

Foley reached first safely, having his hand upon it when the baseman
caught the ball.

“Safe!” declared the umpire.

Then the angry baseman quickly spiked Foley’s hand. It was, in truth,
dirty ball-playing, and the visiting spectators had good cause to
become incensed.

Foley’s right hand was the one injured, and the injury was bad enough
to put him out of the game. Several players ran down to first from
the St. Paul bench.

“Lynch Prince!” yelled the spectators.

“Mob him!”

“Kick him!”

“Kill him!”

It seemed that the spectators would pour onto the diamond, but
several officers appeared and did their best to hold the crowd back.

Trueman, the captain of the visiting team, had reached the side of
the injured player.

“How bad has he hurt you, old man?” he anxiously asked.

For answer Foley held up his bleeding hand, which Trueman examined.

“The cur!” grated Trueman, giving Prince a black look. “He ought to
be shot!”

“Ah! ’twas an accident!” snapped Prince. “W’at’s ther matter wid yer?”

One of the St. Paul players made a lunge at Prince to strike him, but
two others grabbed him and held him back.

“Give this man a runner, Stebson,” said Trueman to the captain of the
home team.

“All right,” said Stebson, and he picked out a man, while Foley
walked back to the bench, accompanied by his friends.

The spectators continued to howl, but the game went on. A doctor was
handy, and he examined Foley’s injury.

“He’ll not pitch again for two weeks,” said the doctor.

“That knocks us out!” groaned Trueman bitterly. “Every other pitcher
we have is used up, and those fellows knew it. What a dastardly mean
way to win a game!”

“What can we do?” asked another player.

“We’ll have to put in anybody we can and let those duffers hit it
out, that’s all.”

The next batter lifted an infield fly to third and was out. The time
had come for the visiting team to take the field. Trueman asked the
umpire to call time until he could decide who should go in to pitch.

Two pitchers were on the bench, but one of them was sick and the
other had an arm that would not enable him to throw the ball up to
the plate. It did seem that it was “all off.”

“Where’s that jay who threw some for the batters to hit before the
game?” asked somebody. “You might try him.”

“Oh, he’d be a mark in a game!” declared a player. “He’s the greenest
thing that ever happened.”

“But he did have speed.”

“And some curves.”

“You must have somebody, Trueman.”

The captain of the visiting team looked round in despair. The
first person he saw, sitting not far away on the bleachers, was
a raw-looking countryman in a suit of clothes that were about
twenty years out of date. The countryman wore a narrow-brimmed,
low-crowned, rusty derby hat, a spike-tailed coat of grandfather’s
days, high-water trousers, which bagged at the knees and were a mile
too loose, a pair of long-legged boots with dried mud on them, and a
standing collar that was not much more than half an inch high. His
bright red necktie was tied in a huge bow, and his white shirt was
rather soiled. From beneath the derby hat flowed a mass of carroty
hair that was straight and coarse. His face did not look very clean,
and he wore a grin that was almost idiotic.

When Trueman’s eyes rested on this person the latter nodded and
winked, then rose, sprang over the rail, and slouched awkwardly
toward the bench of the visiting players.

“Gol-darn hard luck!” he said. “Can’t that feller pitch enny more?”

“Not this game.”

“Shucks! He’s a purty good man, cap’n. Who be you goin’ to put in his
place?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t a pitcher left.”

“Is that so? Why, ding it! this is my chance! I’ll go in fer ye.”

“You?”

“Yep. Jest you give me a try. I’ve bin wantin’ to pitch in fast
comp’ny fer a long time. I’ll jest nacherly s’prise them other chaps.”

“Did you ever pitch anywhere?”

“Did I? Cap’n, I pitched on the Mud Creek team a hull season an’
never lost a game.”

“Mud Creek! Well, this is somewhat different. I don’t believe I have
any use for you.”

“Now, see here, cap’n, don’t be foolish! You say you hain’t got nary
other pitcher?”

“Not one.”

“Well, you’ve got ter put in somebody.”

“Yes.”

“If you put in a man that ain’t a pitcher you’re bound to lose the
game.”

“Yes.”

“I’m a pitcher. Even if I lose the game for ye, you won’t be no wuss
off.”

Trueman said nothing.

“But I hain’t goin’ to do it,” persisted the jay. “If your fellers
will s’port me the way they have your other pitcher, I won’t let them
other chaps git a darn run!”

Trueman shook his head.

“The crowd would guy us,” he said.

“Let ’em guy an’ be hanged to ’em!” exclaimed the countryman. “Mebbe
we’ll be able to take some of the guyin’ aout of ’em before we’re
done. Look here, some of your fellers batted when I was tossin’ em’
up before the game. Ask them if I ain’t got some curves?”

“Curves don’t cut much ice if a man hasn’t a head and experience.”

“I’ll jest bet you a chaw of terbacker that you’ll say my head’s all
right before I’ve pitched long. You don’t want to use up any of your
other men pitchin’, so let me see what I can do. Come on, boss; you
won’t be sorry.”

“All right,” said Trueman suddenly; “I’ll do it.”




                             CHAPTER XI.

                          THE JAY PITCHER.


“You won’t never regret it!” chuckled the jay in deep satisfaction.
“I’m goin’ to make them fellers look like twenty-nine cents.”

“Don’t you want to get into a suit?”

“Not this innin’. I’ll jest peel off my co’t an’ go out jest as I be.”

He had his coat off in a minute, and then he flung aside his vest.
The grin on his face was one of great satisfaction, and he presented
a comical aspect.

Keen, the catcher, ran up and grasped Trueman’s arm.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Are you going to put that man
in?”

“Yes.”

“Then the game will be a farce! We had better stop at once than to
make an exhibition of ourselves.”

“We’ll play it out,” said Trueman grimly.

Then he called the captain of the other team and told him what he
intended doing. Stebson laughed.

“I’m sorry for you, Trueman,” he said; “but we’ll pound that jay all
over the field.”

“I expect you will,” nodded Trueman gloomily; “but I can’t help it.
You do not object to him, do you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Then he goes in.”

The excited crowd had been wondering what was going to happen, and
few of the spectators understood when they saw the countryman fling
off his coat and vest.

However, when the farmerish youth walked out to the pitcher’s box a
great shout of derision went up.

“Look at that!”

“What is it?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Rube! Rube!”

“He’s going to pitch!”

There were shouts of laughter, and everybody felt that a good game
had suddenly degenerated into a ridiculous exhibition.

The stranger ambled along awkwardly as he walked onto the diamond,
his shoulders pitched forward, and his arms swinging in a queer way.
That half-foolish grin remained on his face, but he did not seem at
all disturbed by the shouts and laughter of the crowd.

“Jest give me a few seconds to limber my arm, Mr. Empire?” he asked.

The umpire nodded, and the stranger faced first base. He threw
awkwardly, and did not seem to put much force into the throw.

“He’ll be pudding for our batters,” said a Minneapolis man. “Come,
let’s get out.”

“Hold on,” said a dark-faced man at his side. “I have money bet on
this game, and I want to make sure I’ll win.”

“You’re sure enough now,” said the other, who had a thin, pale face
and a listless manner.

“I want to see him pitch a few.”

“Bet the first man gets a hit.”

“I expect he will.”

“Play ball!” cried the umpire.

The batter stepped up to the plate, and then the new pitcher motioned
for the catcher to meet him, in order to get the signals.

Keen sullenly came down and told the countryman what the signals were.

“Do you think you kin hold me?” asked the jay.

“Hold you?” exclaimed Keen. “Well, if I can’t I’ll give up trying to
catch!”

“All right,” grinned the new pitcher. “We’ll see what we kin do.”

Keen returned to his position and adjusted his mask. Then he gave a
sign, and the jay prepared to deliver the ball. The movements of the
countryman in his delivery were very queer, and the crowd shouted
with laughter.

“Get onto his delivery!” cried many.

The first ball came sailing up to the batter “as large as a barn,”
and the man tried to hit it, but struck too soon.

“There’s speed for you!” laughed Stebson.

“Oh, brace up!” cried the batter. “What do you think this is, anyhow?”

The jay grinned.

“Didn’t hit it, did ye?” he said.

Keen sent the ball back hotly with a snap throw, but the pitcher
caught it with one hand, not seeming to mind it at all.

Then he went through more erratic movements, swung his right arm,
thrust out his left, and jerked the ball through under his left arm,
sending it over the plate.

The movement was so surprising that the batter failed to strike at
all.

“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.

“Well, I’ll be kicked!” gasped the batter.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay. “That’s one on you, by gorry!
Didn’t know I had that up my sleeve, did ye? It’s one I learnt off a
feller by the name of Wiley, an’ he’s purty good when he has a mind
to be. I’ll show ye lots of queer quirks before I’m done with ye.”

Following this he cut several peculiar geometrical figures in the
air with the ball, laid it exactly on the back of his neck, looked
hard at the batter, and sent in one that had the speed of a darting
swallow.

The batter struck too slowly, and the ball went straight through
the hands of the catcher, striking against his body-protector, then
falling to the ground.

“Did you see that?” cried twenty persons.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared the jay, as the umpire declared the
batter out, the catcher having caught up the ball and tagged the
surprised man. “Why, I didn’t s’pose you was so easy! Stand up yer
next victim.”

The witnesses were quite as surprised as the batter had been.

“He struck him out!”

“How did he do it?”

“It was an accident!”

“Robinson will hit him.”

Robinson was the following batter. He laughed at the one who had
struck out, saying:

“Well, you must feel foolish! Before I’d let that object do such a
thing to me!”

Then he stepped quickly up to the plate. He was a great hitter,
having connected with the ball every time up during the game thus far.

The jay took the sphere in his hand, glared at Robinson, then made a
swing, and sent in one of his speedy ones. The moment the ball left
his hand the queer pitcher yelled:

“Look aout!”

Robinson dropped just in time to avoid being hit by the ball, which
fairly whizzed as it passed his head. The catcher was not quick
enough to stop the ball at all.

Up on the bleachers rose another farmerish-looking fellow, who,
however, was dressed in good taste, and who shouted:

“Look out there, Bub-Bub-Bub-Bill! You gol-dud-dud-dud-darn fool!
Dud-dud-dud-do you want to kuk-kuk-kuk-kill somebody?”

“Jest a mistake, Joe,” returned the pitcher, with a grin. “The
consarned ball slipped.”

“Well, dud-dud-dud-don’t do it ag’in, for the lul-lul-lul-love of
goodness!” returned the chap on the bleachers. “You know ha-haow you
lul-lul-lul-laid up Zeb Nobbins fuf-for six months by hittin’ him
that way.”

Then the spectator sat down, looking rather anxious. By this time
all the spectators were getting interested, while the players were
beginning to mention to one another that the jay had speed when he
chose to let it out.

The batter had been surprised and alarmed by the swiftness of the
ball, and he now said:

“Look here, you, don’t you hit me with that ball! If you do, I’ll
throw the bat at you!”

“If I do,” said the pitcher, “you won’t be in any condition to throw
the bat at ennybody, mister.”

Then he tied himself in a knot, as if intending to use his highest
speed, but sent in such a slow one that Robinson swung too quick and
was deceived. For the third time the strange pitcher gave vent to
that braying laugh.

“Why, you chaps are the easiest fooled of anything I ever struck!”
he declared. “Why don’t ye hit the ball, not dab at it that way? Git
inter gear an’ do somethin’.”

Trueman and the St. Paul players were looking on in astonishment.
This was something entirely unexpected, and they were unable to make
up their minds in regard to its meaning.

The next ball delivered looked high, and the batter did not swing at
it; but it proved to be a drop, and it went down across the batter’s
shoulders.

“Two strikes,” said the umpire.

“What?” shouted Robinson.

“Don’t kick,” advised the jay. “You know you was bad fooled. Hit the
next one.”

Robinson was mad, and he slashed furiously at the next ball pitched,
which curved out and missed the end of his bat by eight inches.

“Striker out!” declared the umpire.

The jay had struck out the first two men, and now the amazed
spectators began to clap their hands.

“Thankee,” said the queer fellow, touching the brim of his rusty
derby. “You’re jest beginnin’ to ’preciate me.”

The next hitter grasped a bat and sprang up to the plate.

“Let’s see you strike me out!” he exclaimed. “I’ll bet a dollar you
don’t.”

“Don’t be so wasteful of your money,” advised the pitcher. “It may
come in handy fer ye some time.”

The first ball was a high one, and it did not drop at all. The batter
chased after it.

“Yeou’re easier than t’other ones,” grinned the Jay.

The batter set his teeth.

“Get ’em down!” cried several from the bench.

“All right,” said the pitcher, and he put the next one right over,
but with such speed that Keen dropped it.

“Two strikes!”

The crowd roared.

“A-haw! a-haw!” laughed the stranger. “I hain’t hed so much fun sense
I pitched agin’ the Sucker Run fellers. They was purty easy, but you
chaps are easier than anything I ever seen.”

The next one looked good, but it was a trifle wide and had a rise.
However, the batter hit savagely at it and was out.

“Hooray!” cried the stammering chap on the bleachers, shooting up
and waving his hat. “I knowed you could dud-dud-dud-do it, Bill! They
can’t tut-tut-tut-touch ye!”

“Thankee, Joe,” said the jay. “They’re a dang sight easier than I
thought they wuz.”

Then he walked out of the box.




                            CHAPTER XII.

                    GETTING OUT OF A TIGHT PLACE.


The astonished St. Paul men gathered round the jay pitcher at the
bench, Captain Trueman excitedly asking:

“Good gracious, man; can you keep that up?”

“I dunno,” was the answer. “Mebbe I can’t. Ye see, I fooled ’em that
time cause they thought I was sech a darn easy mark.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Keen. “By Jove! you’ve got the greatest speed
of any man I ever saw when you let it out! What in thunder have you
in that arm--a lot of springs?”

“Oh, I ain’t begun to speed ’em,” declared the stranger.

“Then, for the love of goodness, don’t! Those hot ones burned right
through the mitt.”

“My arm ain’t feelin’ jest right to-day,” said the stranger. “It’s
ruther stiff. Sometimes when it’s all right I do have purty fair
speed.”

“More than to-day?”

“Ruther more.”

“Well, can you find anybody to hold you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You’re lucky.”

“It’s all in gittin’ used to a thing. When I’m all right I ain’t very
wild, an’ that makes it better for a ketcher.”

The St. Paul men muttered among themselves, and one of them told
Trueman to sign the stranger if he could keep that work up.

St. Paul again went out in order, and the new pitcher once more
ambled awkwardly out to his place. This time, however, instead
of being greeted with howls of derision, he was given a round of
applause, in recognition of which he touched the brim of his old hat,
saying:

“That kinder makes me blush. I wisht they wouldn’t pound their hands
at me that way.”

The first Minneapolis batter to face the stranger was anxious, but,
after a ball was called, he succeeded in hitting for a clean single.
The crowd shouted.

“It’s all over now,” said the man with the pale face. “They will fall
on that farmer like a load of brick.”

“I think so,” nodded his dark companion. “His queer movements
bothered them at first, but they won’t be troubled by them now.”

The pitcher seemed to get rattled, for he put a beauty over the
plate, and the next hitter drove one to left field, though the ball
fell so short that the runner on first could not reach third.

“Everybody hits him!” yelled the coachers. “Why, we’ll make a hundred
right here!”

Although the jay grinned, he was very wild, and the next batter,
being a good waiter, was given his first on balls.

The bags were full.

Now the spectators broke out in derision of the new pitcher, who
grinned and waved his hand.

“I ain’t seen no runs comin’ in yit,” he said, apparently not much
disturbed.

“Take him out, Trueman,” advised the second-baseman.

But the captain shook his head.

“Nobody to put in,” he said.

The next hitter was caught by a sharp drop to start with, and fanned
once. Then came one that looked fine, but it was a rise, and the
batter struck under it. That meant two strikes and no balls.

Immediately the pitcher began to try all kinds of coaxers, but the
batter declined to hit at any of them. Three balls were called.

“Now he’s in a hole!” cried one of the coachers. “He’s wild! He’ll
never get it over!”

The batter appeared anxious to hit, but the jay decided that the
fellow was not nearly as anxious as he looked. The queer fellow
grinned at the batter, took all the time permissible, then seemed to
throw the ball straight at him, uttering an exclamation as it left
his hand.

The batter sprang back. He was too late; he saw the ball take a curve
and pass over the plate.

“You’re out!” cried the umpire.

The St. Paul players gasped. This was something entirely unexpected.

“Good luck!” breathed the short-stop.

“A-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay. “That was the time I fooled him
fine! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” came the echo from the bleachers, and the
stammerer was seen holding onto his sides and roaring with laughter.

“How was that, Joe?” cried the pitcher.

“Sus-sus-sus-slick as goose-grease,” came back the reply. “Dud-dud-do
it ag’in!”

“Yes, do it again!” grated the next batter, as he came up to the
plate. “I’d like to see you!”

“Keep watch,” advised the pitcher. “You won’t need eny spectacles.
Here we go!”

He whistled over a high one, and the batter tried for it, but missed
cleanly.

Luckily, the ball did not get far away, though Keen was unable to
hold it. As the ball bounded from the catcher’s hands the countryman
came rushing up to cover the home plate.

“Squeeze um,” he admonished.

The catcher called for a drop, and it came, causing the batter to
swipe for it with a swinging movement. He touched it and a second
strike was called.

“I don’t think you’re very hard,” grinned the pitcher. “Try this one.”

But the batter would not be pulled, and a ball was called.

“Purty good one, Mr. Empire,” said the jay. “It cut a corner.”

“Play ball!” said the umpire.

“All right; I’ll cut the darned old rubber in halves!”

He did so, and the batter struck out. Two men had gone.

When the next hitter came up the man on third proceeded to take long
chances in hopes of scoring. The first one was a ball, and the runner
on third went back quickly.

The jay faced the batter, rubbing his hands as if to dry them, with
the ball under his arm. He then took the sphere and seemed about to
start his swinging movements for delivery.

The runner on third got off. Like a flash of light the pitcher threw
to third.

The baseman caught the ball and put it onto the runner as the latter
tried to get back.

“Out at third!” cried the umpire.

The home team had not scored after filling the bases.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared his stammering friend on the bleachers.

The spectators were astonished by this sudden play, and then the
visiting crowd from over the river broke into a wild shout of
satisfaction and applause.

The jay ambled in toward the bench, his arms swinging awkwardly,
while his gait seemed to indicate that he was used to walking over
rough ground behind a plow. He grinned in the same half-idiotic
manner, nodding to the shouting spectators.

Trueman rushed up and caught the fellow by the hand, exclaiming:

“You got out of that hole splendidly! I thought those men would get
in one score, at least.”

“They never could have done northing of the kind if the ketcher could
hold me. I don’t dare to more’n half let myself aout.”

“You don’t mean that you have still greater speed?”

“I mean that I’ve gut a few things up my sleeve that them other chaps
never seen, b’gorry! I ain’t tried to use my best curves at all. I
don’t darst to do it for fear of havin’ a parst ball.”

Trueman looked at the strange fellow, wondering if he could be
joking; but the jay seemed perfectly serious, as if he actually meant
every word he said.

“What kind of curves can you have that are so wonderful?” exclaimed
the captain of the St. Paul team.

“I gut a gol-ding funny ball,” was the answer. “It curves both ways.”

“Curves both ways? What do you mean?”

“In an’ aout.”

“An in and out? On one pitch?”

“Yep.”

“Say!”

“What?”

“What are you trying to do--string me?”

“Not a gol-darn bit,” answered the countryman, as he took a seat on
the players’ bench. “I kin do it.”

“Why, that’s the double-shoot!”

“That’s jest what it is.”

“There’s only one man in the country who can throw it, and I have my
doubts about his doing the trick. That man is Frank Merriwell, and
I’ve been trying to get in communication with him for a week. I’ll
give him any kind of money to pitch for St. Paul the rest of the
season.”

“You say there ain’t but one man kin throw the double-shoot?”

“Yes.”

“An’ he’s Frank Merriwell?”

“Yes.”

“Well, by gum! I’ll make ye change your mind if your ketcher kin hold
me. The next feller I have ter pitch to will get the double-shoot,
an’ don’t you fergit it.”

Already the first batter was up to the plate, and Webber was ready to
deliver the ball. The visitors were desperate.

Webber’s first one was an out drop, which the batter caught and
lifted over the infield for a clean single. Then the coacher opened
up by first, and the excitement again grew feverish.

The rivalry between St. Paul and Minneapolis was intense, and this
kind of a game was nerve-straining for the spectators.

Webber was angry because he had been hit by the first man up, and he
settled down to “burn ’em over.”

The next batter was eager to hit, and he fanned at a high one. Webber
fancied he had the fellow “going,” and so he continued to work the
high ball; but the batter grew wise suddenly and refused to bite.
Three balls were called.

Webber had been holding the man on first close to the bag, giving him
no chance to steal. But now the pitcher seemed to be in a bad hole.
The coacher was whooping things up in great shape.

“He’ll never put it over, Charley!” he cried. “Take one! Take
another!”

Webber must have become rattled, for he hit the batter with the next
ball pitched.

“Take your base,” directed the umpire.

In vain the Minneapolis men protested that the batter had made no
effort to dodge the ball.

Now the excitement was feverish. Two men were on bases, and no one
was out.

“Here’s where we win!” yelled the coacher, who went prancing down to
the line by third.

“Gol-ding if it don’t look that way!” grinned the jay pitcher. “Who
is the next batter?”

“Foley,” answered somebody. “You take his place. It’s your turn.”

“Then you jest watch me put the wood to the ball fer about two
sacks,” laughed the odd fellow, as he began pawing over the bats.

While he was thus engaged Webber suddenly whirled and threw to first.
The runner had been playing off, and he jumped to get back. The ball
struck him and bounded away.

Instantly the coachers sent both runners. The baseman made a leap for
the ball, got it, sent it to third. The runner was out easily, being
tagged when at least four feet from the base.

Then the baseman threw to second. The runner from first would have
been safe had he not made a slide that carried him past the bag, so
that no part of his person was touching the base when the ball was
put onto him.

“Out at third and second!” declared the umpire.

“Well, I’ll be dinged to goshfry!” gasped the jay, in deep disgust.
“They hed to do it jest when I was going to ding the ball hard
enough to knock the excelsior out of the old thing! Ain’t that the
dad-ding-dest thing you ever seen!”

Webber laughed with satisfaction.

“It’s all over now!” cried the captain of the home team. “Strike out
the Rube, Phil.”

Up popped the jay’s stuttering friend on the bleachers.

“I bub-bub-bub-bet any man tut-tut-tut-ten dollars that
pup-pup-pup-pitcher carn’t sus-sus-sus-strike him out!” he yelled,
wildly waving a roll of bills.

“Sit down!” cried twenty voices.

“I’ll sus-sus-sus-sit daown,” was the answer; “but you
cuc-cuc-cuc-carn’t back me daown.”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” brayed the jay at the plate. “Ain’t no takers
fer your money, Joe.”

Then Webber suddenly sent in a swift one, thinking to take the batter
unawares.

Crack! the bat met the ball.

It did not seem that the jay swung on the ball at all. He simply gave
a snap hit, but the ball went out on a line. Later, when the ball got
past a fielder and went away down against center-field fence, from
which it glanced to one side, the spectators realized that it had
been hit “some.”

And the manner in which the strange pitcher sprinted round the bases
brought the St. Paul crowd up yelling like madmen. Never before on
that field had they seen such a speedy runner on bases. He seemed
to pull his head down between his shoulders and fairly fly, his legs
twinkling like the spokes of a swift-moving wheel. Over first and
down to second he went. By that time the ball had rebounded from the
fence, and the runner kept on to third. Before third was reached the
fielder had the ball and was throwing it in to second.

“Whoa! whoa!” yelled the coacher at third, trying to stop the flying
runner.

But somehow the fellow had stretched up his head and he turned his
face for a look as he went over third without checking his speed.

The ball was in the air on the way to the second-baseman.

Then the witnesses saw a streak of boots and humanity going in to the
plate from third. It seemed that all the condensed energy of the man
was put into the effort to reach the plate ahead of the ball.

“See him go!” yelled the crowd.

The pitcher’s stammering friend was standing on the bleachers, waving
his hat and howling like a wild man. In fact, it had been a cry from
him that caused the runner to take such desperate chances instead of
obeying the coacher at third.

The crowd roared and gasped and grew silent.

The second-baseman took the ball, whirled like a flash, and lined it
to the plate. The catcher was there to receive it and stop the run.

The throw was shoulder-high, and the runner suddenly threw himself
headlong for a slide. Never in the history of the great national game
had there been such a beautiful slide on that ground. The fellow
seemed to scoot over the ground, and he was resting with his hand on
the plate when the catcher bored the ball between his shoulders.

“Safe!” declared the umpire.

What a roar went up! The strange pitcher had stretched an ordinary
three-bagger into a home run.

And tied the score!




                            CHAPTER XIII.

                    THE JAY SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.


A wild scene followed. The St. Paul players rushed forward, lifted
the jay, placed him on their shoulders, and bore him aloft.

“Oh, say!” he cried, “don’t make such a dinged fuss over a little
thing like that! It makes me feel ’shamed! Put me down, for
goshfrymighty sakes!”

But his words were drowned by the howling of the spectators and the
cheering of the happy players.

But what was the more surprising to the crowd quickly followed. A boy
ran out toward the players who were holding the jay aloft, and he was
followed by the most remarkable figure ever seen on those grounds.

The spectators saw an old weather-beaten and wrinkled redskin,
wrapped in a dirty red blanket. This old fellow advanced till he
reached the home plate, where he suddenly snatched the tattered
blanket from his shoulders, flaunted it round his head, and uttered
such a yell of victory that it was heard clear and shrill and
piercing above the roaring of the thousands of spectators.

The piercing yell of the old Indian caused the shouting spectators to
grow silent, while they looked on in thrilled astonishment. As there
came a hush the old man cried:

“Heap big hard hit! Him mighty whiteskin chief!” Then he ended with
a most bloodcurdling war-whoop.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” brayed the stammering fellow on the bleachers.
“Didn’t I tell you he could dud-dud-dud-do it! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

When the rejoicing players lowered the hero of the moment, the boy
who had dashed out ahead of the Indian sprang forward and grasped the
jay’s hand.

“I knew you’d do it!” he said, his handsome face glowing, while there
was a look of pride in his eyes. “Why, you can do anything! You can
do everything!”

“Oh, not by a gosh-ding sight!” exclaimed the countryman awkwardly.
“I couldn’t keep a certain gingery young colt from buckin’ over the
traces oncet on a time; but I kainder guess he won’t do it no more.”

“Never!” declared the boy, something like a look of shame coming to
his face. “Oh, I was silly! Just see what I would have missed had I
gone away!”

Trueman took hold of the jay and drew him aside.

“See here, man!” he exclaimed, in repressed excitement; “who are you,
anyhow? Where did you ever play?”

“Mud Crick, Slabtown, Suckerville, an’ other towns like that. Oh,
I’ve got a reppertation where I’m known! I tole yer I could do a
thing ur two.”

“I believe you have saved this game!”

“Think very likely I hev,” was the cheerful answer. “It would be jest
like me.”

“If you can keep up this kind of work I’ll sign you for the St. Paul
team.”

“Git out!”

“Of course,” said Trueman, who did not wish the stranger to “get his
ideas up,” “you lack experience, and, therefore, you cannot command
much money; but I’ll give you a chance to show what you can do, and
then we’ll talk about money matters.”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay. “Why, mister, you don’t know
how funny it is to hear you talk that air way.”

Trueman flushed, wondering if the fellow was half-witted.

“Talk what way?” he asked.

“’Bout me lackin’ ’sperience, an’ such stuff as that. But I don’t
want to play perfessional baseball, anyhow, an’ I jest stepped inter
this game ter help ye out. You can’t hire me.”

“But think----”

“You ain’t gut money enough.”

“Ten dollars weekly and all expenses.”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”

Again Trueman’s face reddened, for the note of derision in the
laughter of the jay could not be mistaken.

“Isn’t that enough?” asked the captain of the St. Pauls.

“Be you the manager?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t make no kind of an offer, mister. What be you talkin’
about?”

“I’m taking chances. I’ll bring round the manager.”

“’Tain’t no use. He ain’t gut money ernuff to hire me.”

“What?”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t play perfessional baseball fer two hundred
dollars a week, and I mean business when I say so. I’m jest doin’
this ter-day fer the fun of the thing, an’---- Well, gol-dinged ef
that feller ain’t out!”

The next batter had been thrown out at first.

“Now do your handsomest,” urged Trueman. “If you hold ’em down I’ll
give you five dollars.”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” brayed the queer character. “Don’t be so
dinged generous. If you’d said twenty-five it’d sounded better. I’ll
do my best ter hold ’em down, but you kin keep your old fiver in your
trousers.”

Then he walked out onto the diamond in the same slouching, careless
way.

Old Joe Crowfoot and Dick were now seated on the St. Paul bench,
having been placed there as mascots. The savage had wrapped his dirty
blanket about his shoulders once more, and he was stoically puffing
away at a long black pipe. The boy, however, was quivering with
excitement, although he did his best to repress it.

The work of the jay in that inning was something amazing. First he
called down the catcher for a bit of private talk, and the catcher
was heard to exclaim:

“What are you giving me! Impossible! It can’t be done! Of course I
can hold it!”

Then they went back to their positions, and the first batter of the
Minneapolis team was at the plate.

The first ball pitched by the jay amazed the batter, for it started
with a curve out, but seemed to change its course and shoot in with
amazing speed, crossing the plate. The batter had not looked for
anything like that, and he stood with the bat lifted, letting the
ball pass. The catcher, for all of his little talk with the pitcher,
was unprepared, and the ball got past him, after hitting his mitt.

“Strike!” gasped the umpire, who had a good eye, but who seemed more
astonished than anybody else.

“Thought you said you’d hold it!” exclaimed the pitcher. “Put your
fins on it and fasten ’em there.”

The face of the catcher showed his chagrin, for all of the cage he
wore.

“Try it again,” he said.

“Yes, try it again!” growled the batter.

In the stand behind the catcher there was great excitement. One man
was wildly declaring that the ball had curved like a wiggling snake,
and several others agreed with him, while yet others asserted that it
was an optical illusion.

The jay grinned as he pressed the ball into his hand to deliver it
again. He looked at the catcher and nodded, and the catcher braced
himself.

Then came another surprise, for the ball started with an in curve
that caused the batter to get back from the plate, but it changed to
an out and passed over the plate fairly.

“Strike two!” declared the umpire.

A great shout went up from the grand stand, where many persons were
excitedly telling each other that the ball had curved both ways.

The catcher had managed to stop the second one, although it fell from
his mitt, but he was bewildered.

The batter started to kick, but the umpire quickly closed him up.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay. “Tole you folks I hed
somethin’ hot up my sleeve. Don’t believe you ever seen northin’ like
that afore.”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared his friend on the bleachers.
“Now, you’re mum-mum-mum-making mum-mum-mum-monkeys of ’em, old
mum-mum-mum-man!”

“Mum’s the word, Joe,” returned the pitcher. “Ain’t this the greatest
fun you ever seen?”

“Bub-bub-bub-better’n a circus,” declared the chap on the bleachers.

The batter was angry and bewildered. He was looking for another of
those peculiar twisting balls, and, as a result, he fanned out when
the jay put the next one over the inside corner of the plate.

Then the strange pitcher and his stammering friend “a-hawed” in
unison, while the crowd shouted and applauded.

“What sort of a wizard are we up against?” muttered the captain of
the Minneapolis team.

The catcher was on edge now, for he realized that he was catching a
pitcher who stood far ahead of any one he had ever supported before.

The next batter was fooled quite as easily as the first had been,
fanning wildly at the first two balls and then letting the third one
pass, although it cut the plate, and he was declared out on three
strikes.

The third man was looking for something of the same sort, and he
was keyed to a high pitch to hit speed, which caused him to swing
far too soon when the first ball came in dead slow, rocking in the
air without turning, so that the stitches in the covering could be
distinctly seen.

“That’s my dope ball,” laughed the strange pitcher. “Ain’t it a baby?”

Under his breath the batter swore and gripped his bat. The stranger
was “making monkeys” of the hitters as fast as they came up to strike.

“That pitcher is worth five hundred dollars a month to any team!”
declared the pale-faced Minneapolis man. “He must be some old-timer.”

“He doesn’t look very old,” said the dark-faced man, who had
confessed to having money bet on the game. “It must be nothing but a
streak of luck.”

These two men were well known in Western sporting circles, the
pale-faced man being Charley Bates, who had inherited a million and
lost it all in two years of fast living, while the dark-faced one was
Hank Dowling, a notorious gambler and race-track man.

“How much do you stand to lose on this game if St. Paul wins?” asked
Bates.

“Eight hundred dollars,” answered Dowling.

“Well, I reckon you’re out that much.”

“Not yet. The score is tied, and there is another show. We have our
last half.”

“But St. Paul can’t touch that pitcher. Look at that! He has two
strikes on Gibson, and Gib is the third man up this inning.”

“But that fellow may be fixed.”

“How?”

“I’ll find a way.”

Then, as the jay pitcher struck the third man out the crowd went
wild, and somebody in the grand stand yelled:

“Talk about Frank Merriwell’s double-shoot! Why, here’s a man who can
pitch all around Merriwell!”




                            CHAPTER XIV.

                         THE JAY’S FRIENDS.


Now the manager of the St. Paul team got hold of the jay and offered
him all kinds of inducements to finish the season with St. Paul. But
the strange fellow shook his head and said:

“Thankee kindly, mister, but I’m playin’ ball fer my health. I’ve got
more’n seventeen dollars ready money on hand, an’ I don’t need no
more.”

“You must be crazy!” exclaimed the manager. “I’ll give you three
hundred dollars a month.”

“Go ’way! Object ain’t no money to me, as a friend of mine would say.”

“Why, confound you!” spluttered the manager; “I’ll make it a hundred
dollars a week and all expenses!”

“You’re wastin’ your breath, mister; a thousan’ dollars a week
wouldn’t hire me.”

The manager sat down, with a gesture of despair.

“You must be a millionaire in disguise!” he exclaimed, in deep
disgust.

“Mebbe I be,” grinned the jay.

In the first half of the ninth St. Paul made a desperate try to score
and got a man to third by a base on balls, a sacrifice, and a stolen
base, but Webber “put on steam” and retired the side with the runner
still on third.

Then Minneapolis came to bat, determined to get in and do something.
Stebson talked to his men.

“Bunt,” he said. “Get hit by the ball. Do anything to get on first.
It’s the only show. You can’t hit this fellow out, but there must be
a way to do something with him.”

So the first man up pretended to try to dodge one that came close to
him, but dodged into the ball.

It nearly knocked a rib out of him, and he fell in a heap.

“Take your base,” said the umpire.

“Bet four dollars he won’t jump inter another one this game!” said
the pitcher.

Trueman objected to giving the man his base, but the umpire stood by
his decision.

“Now, here’s where we start!” yelled the coacher, as a runner took
the place of the man who had been hit. “Get a lead! Get off that bag!
He can’t catch you in a month!”

In fact, the jay seemed utterly careless of the man on first, but
he suddenly snapped his foot toward the bag and threw at the same
instant.

The ball was in the baseman’s hands almost instantly, and he tagged
the runner as the latter tried to get back.

“Out!” cried the umpire.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared the pitcher, and like an echo came the
braying laugh from the bleachers.

“Balk! balk!” yelled the captain of the Minneapolis team. “How is
that for a balk, Mr. Umpire?”

“The man is out,” said the umpire.

“Now some other feller jump in front of the ball,” invited the jay,
as the uproar subsided.

But the next man lacked the courage to do so when the sphere came
whizzing across the plate, and he went down in short order, striking
out without touching the ball.

The third man up managed to pop up a little fly, which the jay took
easily.

“He’s playing the whole game alone!” exclaimed Charley Bates
disgustedly.

Hank Dowling slipped down from the bleachers and got near the bench
of the visitors. As the jay came in the gambler caught his eye and
gave him a sign. The jay came over, and the gambler grasped his hand,
exclaiming:

“How are you, old man? Didn’t know you at first! Why, you’re doing a
slick turn to-day!”

Then, under his breath, he added:

“A hundred dollars if you throw the game!”

“Hey?” exclaimed the jay, suddenly pulling his hand away.

“Two hundred!” breathed the gambler.

“Why, you gol-dern skunk!” roared the pitcher. “I’d good mind ter
soak ye! You can’t buy me fer two hundred thousan’ dollars!”

Then he loudly cried:

“Gents, this air critter has offered me two hundred dollars to give
ther game erway! What do ye think of that?”

“It’s a lie!” instantly declared Dowling. “I----”

Biff! the hard fist of the jay struck Dowling on the eye, and the man
went backward.

“Don’t like ter strike a critter like that,” said the strange
pitcher; “but it’s agin’ my principles to have him insult me by
tryin’ ter buy me and then call me a liar. If he’d jest called me a
liar I wouldn’t minded it much, comin’ from such a cheap dog, but
ther hull business went agin’ my grain.”

“Look out!” cried several voices, as Dowling rose, hissing an oath.
“He’s going to shoot!”

The man’s hand was at his hip, and he snatched out a revolver. Before
he could use the weapon, however, the pitcher had his wrist in a grip
of iron.

“You’re the blamedest skunk I ever seen!” grimly declared the jay.
“It’s goin’ to be a pleasure to kick the liver out of ye!”

Then he gave the man’s wrist a wrench, forcing him to drop the
revolver, turned him round, and kicked him hard enough to lift him
clear of the ground.

But Dowling had a gang of friends close at hand, and they made a
scramble to get in. Within six seconds the jay was surrounded by
them, and his peril seemed great, for they were ready to do him up.

“Put him out of the game!” panted Dowling. “Smash him!”

Then through the crowd about the imperiled pitcher came Dick. He was
fierce as a young tiger in his charge, and he hurled himself straight
at a man who was on the verge of striking the pitcher with a set of
brass knuckles.

Had that blow fallen the jay would have pitched no more that day. As
it was, the boy gave the man a punch in the stomach that doubled him
up and caused him to fail in his dastardly attempt to “do up” the
pitcher.

Old Joe did not remain idle. For all of his years, he followed the
boy into the midst of the fray, and his arms seemed strong as iron
bars when he thrust the thugs aside. From his lips came a shrill,
piercing yell that was the war-whoop of a red man entering battle.

That was not all. From various points the crowd saw eight young men,
brown, beardless, clear-eyed athletes, who leaped to take part in
the struggle. One of them was the tall, stuttering fellow who had
“haw-hawed” so much over the work of the pitcher, and now he roared:

“Gug-gug-give it to um! Knock the pup-pup-packin’ out of um!”

They seemed to be friends of the jay at the start, and this they
quickly showed was the case, for they sailed into the thugs and
knocked them right and left.

It was a lively fight, but it did not last long. Those young athletes
made short work of the ruffians, quickly putting them to flight.

Two officers hastened to take part, but not an arrest did they make,
for in the surge of the crowd the attacking roughs got away.

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay pitcher. “Why, this is a
reg’ler hot old time! Ain’t seen so much excitement sence I pitched
for Slabtown agin’ Bugville. Thankee very kindly, gents, fer the
nifty way in which ye walked right up an’ took my part. Now, we’ll
continner the game, without further interruptions, I hope.”

Hank Dowling had slipped away, but he took care not to return to his
former seat. In the rear of the crowd he was joined by Bates, who
said:

“I tried to get in, but I wasn’t quick enough, Hank. The chap has
some friends.”

“Devil take him!” grated Dowling. “He nearly twisted my arm off! Why,
he has the strength of Sandow!”

“And he came out of it without a scratch!”

“Yes. He’s a fool, but----”

“He’s a mystery. I don’t believe he’s the fool he looks.”

“But he wouldn’t throw the game for two hundred! What does he care
about the game? What difference does it make to him who wins? I say
he’s a fool!”

“Money doesn’t seem to cut any ice with him.”

“No; and I reckon he’ll pull this game out for St. Paul. I’ll lose my
dough to-day; but I’ll get even with that duffer if it costs me twice
as much!”

St. Paul tried hard to get another run in the first of the ninth, but
the effort was useless. Minneapolis was fighting for its very life,
and no runner reached third.

Then the visitors again took the field. Now the manager sent the
first batter up with instructions to get his base on balls, anyhow,
informing him that he would be fined if he struck at a pitched ball.

The first three pitched were called balls by the umpire, and it began
to look as if the judgment of the manager was good.

Then the jay put one straight over for a strike. Another followed.
The batter gripped his “slugger” and seemed ready to hit.

“Don’t you do it!” cautioned the manager, in a low tone. “Let it go.”

The batter obeyed, and a swift one went straight over.

The trick had not worked, for the first man was out.

“Bunt,” said the manager to the next man, “toward third.”

The jay was grinning and the crowd shouting. The pitcher gave the
batter a straight one, thinking the same trick might be again
attempted. The batter bunted as directed, and the ball rolled toward
third.

The jay sprang for it, but the catcher rushed in and bothered him.
Had the catcher let the ball alone, it seemed that the jay might have
stopped the runner at first. Getting the ball, the catcher started to
throw, but the pitcher caught his arm and held it.

“No good!” he said. “Let that critter go. Better do that than ter
make a bad throw.”

The catcher was angry, but Trueman declared his judgment right.

“Now,” said the jay, in a low tone to the catcher, “look out fer a
bunt toward fust. It’s ther play.”

“Give him that double twist,” advised the catcher.

“Ef you let it git past ye that chap down to fust’d git a sack ur
two. I don’t dast to try it.”

The judgment of the jay was correct, for the next hitter bunted
toward first. Being prepared, the catcher got the bunt, but the
runner on first had obtained a good start, and so it was impossible
to stop him. However, the batter was thrown out at first.

Two were out, and the heavy hitter of the home team came up.

“Drive in this run, Lermon,” directed the manager.

Lermon swung hard to put the ball out into the field or drop it
beyond the fence. He missed the first one and fouled the next.

Then he put up a weak fly that was gathered in by the pitcher, who
did not move from his tracks.

“Another inning!” shouted the crowd.

The jay was laughing, and he looked up toward a point on the
bleachers where had gathered the eight young men who hastened to his
aid in the encounter a short time before. They smiled at him, seeming
to enjoy the sport very much.

The first St. Paul batter drove an easy one to second and was thrown
out.

“Mister Manager,” said the jay, in a low tone, “if you’ll ’scuse me,
I’ll make a suggestion.”

“Go ahead,” said the manager.

“Why don’t you try the same trick t’other chaps did? Make the next
feller bunt to third.”

This suggestion was accepted, and the man succeeded in getting in a
good bunt that let him down to first on a close decision.

Then once more the jay came up. As the queer, awkward-looking chap
advanced to the plate Old Joe rose from the bench and uttered a cry
that sounded strange and weird and thrilling.

Instantly from the friends who had aided the jay in his encounter
came a strange cheer:

      “Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!
       Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!
          O----up! O----up!
             Parabalou----
          Yale! Yale! Yale!
          ’Rah! ’Rah! ’Rah!
                Yale!”

The jay smiled, and his face was transformed. The foolish expression
had vanished, and he seemed positively handsome. In his general
appearance a most astonishing change had taken place. All his awkward
slouchiness had vanished, and now he was straight and graceful,
despite the clothes he wore.

The crowd looked on amazed, realizing something was about to happen.

“Look at the jay!” gasped Trueman.

A hush fell on the spectators. Webber had seen the change in the
unknown pitcher, and it bewildered him.

“Play ball!” commanded the umpire, as the Minneapolis pitcher stood,
with the sphere in his hand.

Then Webber swung his arm and put one right over the heart of the
plate.

The mysterious batter did not wait for another one, but he picked
that one out and smashed it hard enough to make a dent in it.

The ball went out on a line clear of the reach of any infielder, and
the runner ahead of the jay tore up the dust as he scooted round the
bases. Over second he went, on to third, over third, and, while the
spectators rose up and howled, he came speeding home.

The ball had been recovered, but, in his effort to stop the run, the
fielder threw wild. The mysterious ball-player saw this, and he took
a chance by keeping on when he reached third base.

The pitcher got the ball on the line from home to third, whirled
and threw it to the waiting catcher. The runner saw the catcher was
slightly ahead of the base-line. In order to deceive the fellow he
ran straight at him.

The catcher received the ball and swung to put it onto the runner.
Like a flash the fellow dodged, ducked, and went under the catcher’s
arm, flinging himself across the plate.

The umpire’s gesture told the man was safe, but his voice was not
heard in the uproar that followed.

No wonder the St. Paul players went almost mad with joy! No
wonder they hugged the jay and lifted him aloft as Old Joe again
flaunted his red blanket in the air and uttered that ear-piercing,
heart-thrilling yell!

The wonderful stranger was lifted a second time on the shoulders of
the admiring players, while men on the bleachers stood up and waved
hats, hands, and canes in a tumultuous upheaval. In the grand stand
ladies fluttered their handkerchiefs and men shouted.

Not only was the St. Paul crowd thundering, but others had joined in,
having been won over by the remarkable work of the unknown.

It was some moments before the cheering subsided and the game could
continue. Then, as the crowd quieted down, the youthful friends of
the wonderful pitcher were heard singing. And this is the song they
sang:

      “Here’s to good old Merry--drink it down!
      Here’s to good old Merry--drink it down!
          Here’s to good old Merry,
          He’s a red hot huckleberry----
      Drink it down! drink it down! down! down!”




                             CHAPTER XV.

                            A CHALLENGE.


Dick hugged the mysterious ball-player when the latter was lowered to
the ground. The pitcher laughed and asked:

“Is this better than the fun you used to have, Dick?”

“It is better than anything!” palpitated the lad. “It’s perfectly
glorious.”

Then up in the grand stand a man rose and cried:

“Minneapolis, you have been taken in to-day! Take a tumble to the
trick! That jay is no jay at all! He’s simply made up like a jay!
He’s some king-pin off the National League rung in on you!”

But up rose another man, who loudly declared:

“You’ve been fooled, all right, but he’s no professional. He’s a
college pitcher, and you ought to know him by this time. Didn’t you
hear his friends when they cheered? Didn’t you hear them singing?
Why, I know who he is!”

“Who?” cried hundreds of voices.

“He’s Frank Merriwell!” declared the man.

A hush--then a cry of surprise rose to a shout of wonder. Everybody
present, it seemed, had heard of Frank Merriwell.

Was it possible this chap could be Merriwell in disguise?

“By the Lord Harry!” gasped Trueman, “I believe that fellow is right!”

Then he jumped at the “jay,” demanding:

“Who are you? Is that man telling the truth? Are you Frank Merriwell?”

“Well, by gum! what a question?” grinned the strange pitcher. “How
kin I be?”

“But you are!” asserted the captain of the St. Paul team positively.
“You’re no Rube!”

“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the fellow, slapping his thigh and
seeming greatly amused.

But the man in the grand stand cried again:

“He is Frank Merriwell, and those chaps on the bleachers who cheered
for him and sang are members of his baseball-team.”

Up rose an apple-cheeked chap in the midst of the group of young
athletes on the bleachers. He looked around with a radiant smile,
flirted one hand with a peculiar gesture that seemed to command
silence, and then clearly cried:

“Ladies and gentlemen--and others: The Solomonlike gentleman in the
grand stand has made it impossible to longer maintain the deception,
and so we are forced to admit that his eagle eye has penetrated
the disguise of our esteemed and honored captain. Yonder Rube,
with hayseed in his hair is in truth the only and original Frank
Merriwell, who has in his sleeve a few kinks and twists he has not
ventured to give the ball to-day. We, ladies and gentlemen, are his
humble followers, and we are modest enough to confess that we regard
him as the greatest pitcher who ever came down the pike. Yea, verily,
even so! The choir will now chant an anthem.”

Then he sat down and the young men on the bleachers loudly sang:

      “All hail to the chief who strikes out the batter,
      He puts the ball over the four-cornered platter;
      And then with the stick he’s ever quite handy,
      In the game of baseball our Merry’s a dandy.”

The delighted spectators cheered and applauded.

“This game isn’t over,” cried a Minneapolis man. “We have another
inning.”

“But you’ll never be able to make a run off that pitcher,” retorted
a fan from St. Paul.

“Oh, he can be hit!” flung back the other.

Webber had been given time to cool down, and now he caused the next
batter to put up an easy one. The last man fanned, and the side was
out. But the lead secured by St. Paul seemed large in a game of this
sort.

As Merriwell walked out into the box he was given an ovation by the
spectators.

“That makes me sick!” muttered Stebson, captain of the home team.
“He’s nothing but an ordinary college pitcher. He’s had great luck
to-day, but I don’t believe he could keep the work up through nine
innings.”

“We made a mistake in letting them substitute him,” said one of the
players.

“But who’d thought he was anything much! He’s a mighty clever actor.”

“I understand he was on the stage once.”

“That accounts for it.”

The captain of the home team did not propose to give the game up.
He declared there was a show to win out, and the batters went up to
strike under his directions. He told them just what to do, and they
obeyed him.

Merry was at a disadvantage, for he did not have his regular catcher.
However, Frank worked the first batter cleverly, the fellow being
thrown out at first on an easy hit to third.

The next one tried to bunt, but Merry had anticipated the trick
and kept the balls high. It is difficult to bunt a high ball
successfully, and two tries resulted in two strikes. Then the fellow
fanned and struck out.

“The game is all over!” cried a St. Paul man.

Then up rose a Minneapolis man and shouted:

“It’s nothing but a streak of luck. We can beat a team with that boy
pitching for it nine times out of ten. I’ll back Minneapolis to win
against Frank Merriwell’s own team.”

This created applause, and Merriwell laughed.

“It’s a good thing to have faith in your home team,” he said quietly.

“Will you play us?” demanded the man.

“I should be delighted,” answered Frank, “but I have to hear from
your manager.”

Then he proceeded to strike the last batter out, and the game was
over.

“What do we owe you?” asked the manager of the St. Pauls, as Merry
walked in to the bench.

“Nothing,” was the answer. “I didn’t do this for pay, but for the
sport.”

“How can we thank you?”

“You don’t have to. I owe you thanks.”

“For what?”

“The fun I’ve had.”

Merriwell’s friends rushed down and gathered round him.

“Ye gods and little fish-hooks!” spouted Ready, posing before Frank.
“But you do look like a freak! And to think this is the fastidious
Frank Merriwell!”

“Merry, you’re a dim-jandy!” spluttered Rattleton, grasping Frank by
the hand. “You’ve given us any amount of fun!”

“More sport than I’ve had before in a month,” rumbled Browning. “I
can have lots of fun out of baseball when I don’t have to play.”

“But I’m th-th-th-thundering mad!” stuttered Gamp fiercely.

“What about?” asked Merry.

“You mum-mum-mum-mocked my laugh,” said Joe. “Gosh-ding if I didn’t
think sometimes that I was lul-lul-lul-laughin’ myself!”

“Couldn’t anybody else do the trick you did, Merry,” said Hodge.

“It was better than a round-up,” nodded Berlin Carson.

“Heap much big time!” put in Old Joe Crowfoot, who had joined the
group.

“Crowfoot,” said Frank, “you’re a mascot. You hoodoo the other side
when you utter that ear-splitting war-whoop.”

“Dick him like for me to do um,” said the savage.

“And you will do anything for Dick,” said Merry, resting a hand on
the shoulder of the Indian who had thrice attempted his life. “For
that reason you are my friend.”

The manager of the Minneapolis team pushed his way into the group.

“You’re a rather clever chap, Merriwell,” he said, with an angry
sneer on his face. “We owe you something.”

“Don’t mention it!” smiled Frank.

“But I have to mention it. We owe you a good beating.”

“What sort? Same as those toughs tried to give me?”

“Perhaps he’s sore because they failed to get in their work,” flared
Hodge.

“Not that sort,” said the manager. “But you seem to have a swelled
head. You think you can’t be beaten. The truth is that you had a big
streak of luck to-day.”

“Do you count it luck?”

“I certainly do! Why, you struck out men the best pitchers in this
league cannot make fan.”

“They’d get used to that if they had to bat against him right along,”
said Jack Ready airily.

“They’d hammer him all over the lot in another game!” exclaimed the
manager.

“Oh, for another game!” sighed Jack.

“You shall have it if you dare play!” exclaimed the manager. “We have
an open date to-morrow, and we’ll play you right here at three in the
afternoon. Do you dare accept?”

“I shall accept with great pleasure,” bowed Frank, smiling.

“And we’ll trim you scientifically,” added Ready.




                            CHAPTER XVI.

                        THE CHALLENGE GAME.


The morning papers contained accounts of the appearance of the “jay
pitcher” in the ball-game the previous day and his final unmasking
as Frank Merriwell. While the papers were forced to confess that his
work in the box had been surprising, still not one of the reporters
seemed willing to credit him with ability to keep it up. Some of them
stated that his delivery was puzzling to strange batsmen, but that
almost any hard-hitting team would be sure to fall upon him heavily
before a game was over.

This made Hodge angry and disgusted.

“Why is it,” said Bart, “that these newspaper duffers always
seem to think that college men are not as fast as professionals?
Professionals seldom play for blood, as college men do.”

“But professionals do have the experience,” confessed Merry. “Old
leaguers make the best coaches for college teams.”

“That’s all right; but all the big teams are scouting for college
pitchers nowadays.”

“Pitchers are in demand always. Few college men, however, play on
league teams outside the pitcher’s box. I see these papers think
we’ll be easy for Minneapolis this afternoon.”

“Well, they have another think coming to them. You know the chap who
tried to bribe you to throw the game yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s betting all kinds of money on Minneapolis.”

“How do you know?”

“Belmont, the freshman I saved from getting a thrashing last year,
took me down to one of the sporting clubs last night, and that fellow
was there. His name is Dowling, and he’s a gambler. He was looking
for bets, and he found lots of them. I should imagine he shoved up a
thousand on the game right there.”

Frank smiled.

“If we win,” he said, “Mr. Dowling will be the sorest sport in this
town.”

“We’ll win,” nodded Hodge grimly. “I wouldn’t lose the game for a
thousand dollars!”

“But we’ll have to play ball if they have another pitcher like
Webber.”

“I hear they are going to put their crack pitcher against us.”

“Who is it?”

“Pink Potter.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Is he?”

“Sure thing.”

“You know about him?”

“I know his record. He’ll be in the National next season.”

“What has he done?”

“Shut out two of the leading teams this season without a hit.”

“He can’t do it with us!”

“I hope not.”

“I know he can’t.”

“Still,” said Frank, “we have not what would be regarded as a
hard-hitting team, and some of the men are decidedly weak in their
batting.”

“Slugging doesn’t win close games as a rule. I’ve seen good bunting
teams lose games by the foolishness of their manager. Wanting a run
or two, they have been urged to ‘beef it out,’ which caused them to
fan.”

“That’s right,” Frank agreed, “but hitters are valuable always.”

“You’ll have to hold ’em down. A run or two may be enough to win the
game.”

Hodge did not permit his confidence to be shaken. His faith in Frank
was unbounded.

Merry watched his men closely, for he knew the game on hand was
certain to be difficult.

Dick was delighted over the prospect, but was disappointed when he
found Frank intended to put him on the bench. The boy, despite his
years, fancied he could play in the game and be valuable.

When dinner-time came the boys all went down together, having one
large table in the dining-room. Barely were they seated when Merry
observed at a near-by table the dark-faced gambler who had tried to
bribe him.

Dowling seemed to pay not the slightest attention to Frank. He was
talking to the colored waiter and seemed ordering from the bill of
fare.

The same waiter, with two others, afterward came to wait on Frank’s
table.

Merry took care in the choice of proper food for each man, and
he permitted none of them to have coffee, which he regarded as a
stimulant, but which he was certain often made men heavy and lifeless
in the course of an hour or more after it was taken.

For himself, Merry ordered vichy water, and some of the others took
the same.

The boys were in good spirits, Jack Ready joking and laughing after
his usual manner. Even Greg Carker was cheerful. This, however, Ready
declared, was a bad sign.

“Do you notice anything queer about the taste of this vichy,
Rattleton?” asked Frank.

Harry had a glass of it.

“I don’t know,” answered Rattles. “Don’t think I do.”

“My taste may be off,” confessed Frank, “but it seems odd to me.”

He did not drink more than half of what was placed before him.

After dinner not one of the men was permitted to smoke. Bruce groaned
for his pipe, but Frank said no, and that settled it.

By two o’clock the cars for the baseball-grounds were crowded. It
became evident that a great crowd would turn out to the game.

It was two-thirty when Merriwell’s team appeared on the field. They
were greeted with cheers from the spectators.

St. Paul had sent over a great throng of rooters for Merriwell, his
feat of the previous day having won the admiration of the fans across
the river.

Frank’s team was given the field first for practise. Two men from the
other team volunteered to bat.

Dick Merriwell pulled on the catcher’s glove and Merry started in to
limber up a little. He was pale, as Dick observed.

“Anything the matter?” asked the boy.

Frank shook his head.

Merry started throwing easily and slowly, but several times he
stopped to brush a hand across his eyes. Twice after doing this he
threw the ball far to one side of Dick.

The boy was seized by a conviction that something was wrong, but
Frank would not say so.

Minneapolis put up faster practise than had Merry’s team, and the
spectators began to feel that the difference in the two nines was so
marked that the college men had little show.

At last the hour for the game arrived, and the umpire walked onto the
diamond. Frank’s team was sent to bat first.

“Start it right off, Jack,” advised Frank, as Ready picked out a bat.
“A good start means a lot.”

For once in his life, at least, Ready was not smiling when he
advanced to the plate. The line-up of the teams was as follows:

     MERRIES.                     MINNEAPOLIS.

  Ready, 3d b.                  Bryant, lf.
  Carson, ss.                   Jones, c.
  Hodge, c.                     Stebson, 3d b.
  Gamp, cf.                     Hardy, rf.
  Browning, 1st b.              Corday, ss.
  Swiftwing, lf.                Prince, 1st b.
  Rattleton, 2d b.              Rafferty, cf.
  Carter, rf.                   Hicks, 2d b.
  Merriwell, p.                 Potter, p.

Ready waited well, but Potter started out with good control, and he
forced Jack to swing at last. The ball was hit, but it popped up into
the air, and the short-stop gathered it in.

Carson walked out, met the first one “on the nose,” and drove it like
a bullet into the hands of Potter. The pitcher muffed the ball, but
picked it up in time to throw Berlin out at first.

“Well, well, well!” cried Prince. “How easy they are!”

Both men had hit the ball, however, and Frank felt encouraged.

“He isn’t so hard, Hodge,” said Frank. “A little single will start
the thing going.”

Hodge let the first one pass. It was a high ball, but it turned into
a drop, and the umpire declared a strike.

The next one was an out, and it was called a ball.

Then came one close to Bart’s fingers, and he missed it. The second
strike was called.

Potter “worked the limit,” but Hodge made him put it over. Then Bart
drove out a fly that was taken by Bryant, and the first three batters
had been retired in order.




                            CHAPTER XVII.

                          A BAD BEGINNING.


When Frank rose from the bench to go into the box he was seized by a
queer sensation at the pit of the stomach, and there seemed to be a
blur before his eyes.

“What ails me?” was the thought that passed through his mind.

Then he heard a laugh that caused him to turn and look toward the
grand stand, brushing his hand across his eyes. There in the stand
sat Hank Dowling and Charley Bates. The dark-faced gambler was
laughing and looking straight at Merry.

In that moment a feeling of suspicion assailed him. Somehow it seemed
that the grinning rascal in the stand was responsible for the feeling
of giddiness that had attacked Merry.

“Foolish!” muttered Frank. “It can’t be.”

Yet at that moment Dowling was saying to Bates:

“Look at him! He staggered a bit when he got up. The stuff is getting
in its work.”

“You’re a dandy!” exclaimed the opium fiend admiringly. “But I don’t
understand how you got the stuff into him.”

“Know Pete, the cross-eyed waiter, down at the hotel where those
chaps are stopping?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I got Pete out of a bad scrape last winter when he was
arrested for cutting a man.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. He said he’d do anything for me. I haven’t wanted to use him
till to-day.”

“What then?”

“I dined there. I called on Pete to doctor Merriwell’s vichy water,
which he ordered. I gave him the stuff to do the trick, and he did
it. Merriwell must have tasted something wrong in the water, for he
drank only half a glass. That was enough, though.”

“You think he won’t be able to pitch?”

“If he is able, they’ll hammer him all over the lot. I stand to win
two thousand to-day.”

“And, having taken your advice, I have my last blooming dollar on the
game. If we don’t win, I’m in the soup.”

“We’ll win. Watch Merriwell. Bryant will begin with a hit.”

Frank stood in the box, while Bryant came up to the plate. Twice he
passed a hand across his eyes. Then he looked for Bart’s signal,
nodded, and delivered the ball.

Bryant met the very first one with a smash that sent out a clean
single.

“I told you!” laughed Dowling quietly. “I knew what would happen!”

Merry muffed the ball when it was thrown in.

“Get ready for the slaughter!” cried Prince, as Jones came up.

Merry hesitated, accepted the signal, then pitched the ball wild and
Bryant went to second on it. The spectators were amazed. They could
scarcely believe this was the same fellow who had, disguised as a
jay, done such work for St. Paul the day before.

“He’ll steady down in a moment,” said many.

Dick Merriwell was filled with alarm, for he plainly saw something
was the matter with Frank.

“He’s sick!” muttered Dick.

Then Merry put a ball over and Jones smashed it out for two bags,
bringing Bryant in with a run.

“Why, it’s going to be a regular snap!” cried Prince.

“Looks like a skinch,” muttered Ready, to himself. For once in his
heedless life Jack was extremely worried and betrayed it.

“Use the double, Merry,” he urged.

Stebson was up, and Frank signed that he would start with the
double-shoot.

Then Merry sent one into Stebson’s ribs, and the captain of the
Minneapolis team walked.

Bart came down to speak to Merry.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Something,” confessed Frank; “but I think I’ll be all right in a
minute.”

Hardy walked up with a barrel of confidence.

Again Frank tried the double-shoot, but he did not make it curve both
ways, and Hardy drove it far into right field.

Jones and Stebson both came in, and Hardy took second on the throw to
stop Stebson from scoring.

“Oh!” shouted the crowd, in disgust.

Corday was eager, and Merry managed to force him into putting up a
high fly, which was gathered by Gamp in deep center.

Hardy attempted to make third after the fly was caught, but Joe lined
the ball straight into Ready’s hands, and Jack tagged the runner out.
Two men were retired.

Prince waited till Frank gave him a good one, and then he singled
safely.

Hodge was calling for the double-shoot, but Frank could not use it.
In truth, Merry could scarcely see the batter, save in a blur.

Rafferty laughed at Merry as he came to the plate. Then he hit the
first one into right field, where Carker pulled it down, after a hard
run.

Three men were out at last, but the home team had made three scores
and Merry had been hit hard.

Dick met Frank when he came in to the bench, but Merry simply shook
his head, without saying a word. As he did so, Frank heard that
triumphant laugh in the grand stand, but the blur before his eyes did
not permit him to locate the exultant rascal.

Merry would answer no questions, but he spoke in a low tone to Dick.

“Warm up,” he said.

The boy understood. He was to go into the box against Minneapolis.

His heart leaped and then sank. For a moment he grew pale, and then
he asked for a ball. A moment later Dick and Bart were moving out to
a place where the boy could warm up.

The spectators did not realize what it meant, for not one of them
imagined that the slender boy would be sent against the heavy-batting
leaguers.

Gamp came up and made a fierce try for a hit, which dropped the ball
in the hands of an outfielder.

Browning seemed dispirited, for he fanned three times on the first
three balls pitched.

Swiftwing fouled repeatedly and then struck out.

Again Merriwell’s men had been retired in order.

As the home team came in from the field something surprising happened.

Out from the dressing-rooms came a most fantastic figure. It was
an old savage, dressed in the feathers and finery so loved by his
people, and painted in the most hideous manner. Straight toward the
home plate he advanced.

“Look at that!”

“What is it?”

“An Indian!”

“It’s a joke!”

These exclamations came from the astonished spectators.

“It’s Old Joe!” breathed Dick Merriwell. “What is he going to do?”

No one interfered with the old redskin, but all waited and watched to
see what he was about to do.

When he was about four feet from the home plate the old fellow halted
and extended his hands, while his painted face was uplifted. Thus he
stood for several seconds. Then he began moving round the plate in
a circle, gradually increasing his pace and changing his step to a
dance. From his lips came a low, weird sound that was like a song,
and it grew louder and louder as he continued the dance.

“It’s a regular war-dance!” exclaimed Jack Ready. “So help me, Joseph
is doing this to give us strength in battle!”

Thus, singing a strange battle-song, which grew louder and louder,
Old Joe did a wild war-dance round the home plate.

No one interrupted the old fellow, for all were interested in the
singular performance. A few small boys hooted and whooped, while
many laughed; but to nothing of this sort did the Indian pay the
least attention.

Crowfoot’s movements quickly became fierce and violent, till it
seemed most amazing that a man of his years could go through them.
His singing was a shriek, and then, of a sudden, it stopped. With
heaving breast, the painted fellow turned and walked toward the bench
of the visiting players.

Dick Merriwell was standing there, and straight to the boy advanced
the Indian. Dick met him, and the old savage grasped the hand of the
lad.

After looking into Dick’s eyes, the Indian lifted his face skyward
and uttered a yell that startled and amazed many who heard it. It was
the confident war-cry of his tribe, and it meant that he felt sure of
victory.

When this yell had pealed from his lips, Old Joe lightly touched Dick
on the cheeks and forehead, following which he struck the boy a sharp
blow on both his right and left arm.

“Go!” he said. “Heap much strong to beat!”

Then Merriwell’s team went onto the field, Dick entering the box.

Hank Dowling laughed his satisfaction, softly, grimly.

“Look at that, Charley!” he said. “See the kid they have been forced
to put in Merriwell’s place.”

“They’ll kill that boy in one inning,” asserted Bates.

“Why, it’s foolishness to put him against such sluggers as our men
are!”

“Worse than foolishness! They will bat his eyes out. I’ve made a
good thing to-day and evened up with Merriwell for what happened
yesterday.”

Hicks, the first batter, stepped out to the plate, looking
sympathetically at Dick.

“Too bad, kid,” he said. “I hate to do it, but I’ve got to fat my
batting-average to-day.”

Dick made no reply. He took the signal from Bart and prepared to
pitch. Hodge had called for the boy’s remarkable jump ball at the
very start.

Dick sent it in with considerable speed, and, still laughing, Hicks
tried to meet it.

The ball seemed to jump right over his bat!

“That’s queer!” exclaimed the striker. “Should have hit that on the
nose.”

“Why, he couldn’t hit you in a year!” came from Ready.

“It’s a snap, Dick,” spoke Rattleton.

“Dead easy,” grunted Browning.

“Put it right over,” advised Carson.

Dick prepared to deliver the ball again, but now, to the surprise of
the batter, he changed his position so that he seemed ready to pitch
left-handed.

In came the ball, but it seemed wide of the plate. It curved inward,
however, and cut the outside corner.

“Strike two!” declared the umpire.

The batter had not offered at it, and he was angry, but the umpire
quickly stopped a kick.

Then the boy changed back again and delivered the ball with his right
hand, again resorting to the jump ball, which caused Hicks to fan.

“Batter is out!” cried the umpire.

A shout went up from the crowd.

“The kid struck him out!”

“That’s right!”

“He pitches with either hand!”

“Hicks thought him too easy.”

“Potter will get a hit.”

The crowd was talking excitedly as the pitcher for the Minneapolis
team walked up to the plate. Hicks growled as he retired to the bench.

“Think of being struck out by that baby!” he exclaimed.

Potter was determined to show what he could do. He batted
left-handed, and immediately Dick prepared to deliver the ball with
his left hand.

The remarkable boy could throw with either hand, and, of late, he had
been practising pitching with his left hand. To his surprise, he had
found he could get greater curves with his left than with his right,
but his control was not quite as good, while his speed was much less.

The first ball pitched to Potter was very wild, but Dick took pains
with the next one, and sent a drop over. Potter fouled it, and his
friends told him he would meet the next one. He did not, however, and
Dick got two strikes on him very quickly.

Then, as Hodge called for the jump ball, the boy changed about and
threw with his right hand.

The ball looked like one straight over, and Potter went after it. It
rose clear of his bat and landed safely in Bart’s mitt.

“Striker out!” cried the umpire.

“Ah!” shouted the witnesses, amazed because the slender lad had
fanned two of the home team.

But now up came Bryant, regarded as the best single hitter on the
Minneapolis team. Dick seemed to try to “pull” him, but the batter
was a great waiter, and three balls without a strike were called on
the youthful pitcher.

“Nobody walks!” exclaimed Ready.

“Put it straight over,” advised Carson.

“Let him hit it,” from Rattleton.

“We’ll get him,” rumbled Browning.

Bart felt certain Bryant’s training would compel him to wait, and so
he signed for one straight over.

Dick obeyed. The ball whistled, and it cut the home plate in two even
pieces.

“Strike!”

“That’s the talk!” cried Carson. “He’ll have to hit it!”

Again Dick drove the ball straight over.

“Strike two!”

“Oh, lul-lul-lul-let him hit it!” cried Gamp, from center field. “I
want to warm up.”

Bart called for the rise.

Dick grasped the ball for the jump, on which he put his greatest
reliance. In vain he had practised and worked to acquire the
double-shoot, but, while thus employed, he had learned how to throw
the jump ball, which seemed quite as effective as the double-shoot.

When the boy sent the ball in it seemed another one straight over.
Bryant did not try to “kill it,” but he swung to meet the sphere and
line it out.

The ball gave that queer jump, and he did not touch it at all.

“Batter is out!” cried the umpire.

Then the crowd uttered a roar, for this slender lad struck out the
first three men to face him.

“What’s the matter with that?” yelled a man. “Why, he’s just as good
as Frank Merriwell!”

“Hanged if I don’t believe he’s better!” cried another.

“Who is he? Who is he?” was the question that went from mouth to
mouth.

Somebody found out.

“He’s Frank Merriwell’s brother!”

This information caused a great buzzing in the crowd, and interest in
Dick grew apace.

Feeling sick and giddy, Merry had sat on the bench and endeavored to
keep track of what was taking place. Although he had great confidence
in his brother, he was fearful that Dick might not prove equal to the
emergency. It was a hard place to put a lad of so few years and so
little experience.

But Merry was satisfied when he found that Dick had thus easily
disposed of three batters.

“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe, who was sitting on the bench in all his
painted glory. “Heap big snap!”

“Good boy!” said Merry, as Dick came in. “You’re a brother worth
having.”

Up in the grand stand two men were talking.

“What do you think of that, Hank?” exclaimed Bates.

“Luck!” retorted Bates. “Nothing but luck. They’ll pound his eye out
next inning.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course they will! How can they help it? He’s nothing but a kid.”

“But they say he’s Frank Merriwell’s brother.”

“What of that?”

“These Merriwells are hard to beat.”

“What’s the matter with you? Are you squealing?”

“No, but I feel like hedging. Trouble is I haven’t a dollar to hedge
with.”

“You would be a fool to hedge! That boy isn’t strong enough to last
a whole game.”

“But I’m stripped if we lose--and you’ll be to blame!”

“Your nerve is failing.”

But, in spite of his placid outward appearance, Hank Dowling was not
quite easy. Being a gambler, he was nothing if not superstitious, and
the appearance of the old redskin on the field had filled him with
strange forebodings.




                           CHAPTER XVIII.

                           THE GREAT HIT.


It was a great game after the bad first inning. Up to the eighth
neither side made any further scores. In the last of the eighth,
however, through wildness, Dick gave the first man up a base on
balls. The next batter sacrificed the runner to second. Then Dick
gave another bag. On top of that, the next hitter batted one to
Ready, who fumbled it long enough to fill the bags.

Only one man was out.

Then up from the bench rose Frank Merriwell. In the midst of the game
he had been very sick, but now his brain seemed clear and his hand
felt steady. Into the diamond he walked, and Dick walked out.

The crowd shouted.

“Remember how they hit him in the first inning!” “It’s all over now!”
“They’ll make a dozen!” “Move back your outfielders!”

Frank took the ball and looked at Bart, who gave a sign. Merry shook
his head, and assumed a position that indicated he was about to use
the double-shoot.

Every man on the field knew what was coming. The batter, however, was
not prepared.

Whiz!--that strangely twisting ball went over the pan.

“Strike one!” cried the umpire.

Bart smiled grimly as he returned the ball.

Whiz--again came the double-shoot, but with curves reversed.

The batter swung hard, missed, fell down.

“Two strikes!”

Bart Hodge showed his teeth. This was Merriwell in form. The speed
was enough to make the ball burn through the big catching-mitt.

“Pretty, Merry--pretty!” said Bart.

The batter got up, muttering to himself.

Merry knew he had the fellow on the string, and so he used a high,
straight ball. The fellow went after it, and fanned.

“Batter is out!”

“Well, well, well!” cried somebody in the crowd. “That’s the way he
pitched yesterday! Now he is getting into gear!”

The next batter had his teeth set, but Merry used the double-shoot
with the same deadly effect. Three times the fellow fanned, and the
side was retired.

Minneapolis had not scored after getting the bags filled with only
one out.

“Heap big stuff!” came from Old Joe, as Merry walked in to the bench.

“Who is the hitter?” asked Frank.

“I’m the first man,” said Browning.

“Get hit by the ball if you can,” commanded Merry. “If you can’t,
then get your base on balls. Make believe you are anxious to line it
out, but do not hit.”

Bruce groaned, for he was anxious to hit. Merry, however, had found
that any one who waited stood a good show of getting a base off
Potter, who had grown wild as the game advanced.

Browning went up to the plate, and two strikes were called on him
without delay. Then he looked at Merry for permission to hit, but
Frank grimly shook his head.

The next one looked close, but the umpire called it a ball. Then
Potter tried an out, but that was a ball. A high one followed, and
three balls had been called.

Now Bruce expected a straight one over the center, and again he
besought permission to hit it out. Again Frank shook his head.

Potter tried to put one right over, but he failed, and the umpire
called four balls.

“Oh, Laura!” squealed Jack Ready, as he waltzed down to the
coaching-line by first. “Here is where we win the bun!”

“Make him get them right over,” said Frank, as Swiftwing picked out
a bat. “Don’t go after high ones.”

The young Indian was cool enough when he walked up to the plate, and
he smashed the second one toward first, but just inside the line.

The first baseman got the ball while Browning was racing for second.
Fortunately, Bruce had a big start. As it was, he would not have
reached second had not the baseman dropped the ball thrown by Prince
after putting Swiftwing out at first. But Bruce was safe on second,
and one man was out.

Frank knew Rattleton stood little show of getting a hit, and so he
said:

“Get your base on balls.”

Harry stood up and pretended to be ready to hit, but did not swing.
Four balls were called.

Carker came next.

“Get your base on balls,” said Merry grimly.

Carker did not reply.

The first one was over for a strike. Then came a ball. Then another
ball. But a strike followed, and Carker’s show looked poor.

Potter tried a very high one, and Greg came near swinging.

“Three balls!” decided the umpire.

Frank rose from the bench, a bat in his hand.

“Do not strike at the next one, Carker,” he plainly said. “If it cuts
the plate in two, let it pass.”

Suddenly Potter was anxious. He knew another ball would fill the
bases. Although he was aware that the batter would not strike, he was
altogether too anxious to get the ball across, and he failed to find
the plate.

“Take your base!” said the umpire.

The spectators shouted. The bases were filled, and up to the plate
stepped Frank Merriwell.

Now was the time to win.

Charley Bates was paler than usual, while Hank Dowling, for all of
his nerve, did not look quite easy.

Potter began to fancy that everybody on the other team intended
trying to walk. That caused him to put the first ball right over for
Merriwell.

It was just where Frank wanted it. He met it fairly, and away sailed
the sphere.

For a moment the runners held their bases, and then a great roar went
up:

“It’s over the fence!”

In right field the fence was shorter than elsewhere, and Merry had
picked out that point, driving the ball hard to put it over.

It was over!

Round the bases to the home plate came man after man, while the grand
stand and bleachers thundered. As Merry came trotting down from
third, Old Joe Crowfoot rose and added his shrill shriek of joy to
the clamorous uproar.

That home run had placed Frank’s team one score in the lead.

Dick Merriwell danced with delight, laughing and shouting.

What did it matter if Jack Ready followed with a pop-fly and was out?
What though Carson failed to hit the ball at all and the side was
retired?

Merry went into the box again, and before him fell the best hitters
of the home team. They could do absolutely nothing with his
double-shoot.

Merry had won the game with his home-run hit over the fence in the
first of the ninth.




                             CHAPTER XIX.

                        DICK THRASHES A BULLY.


“There he is!”

“Who?”

“Frank Merriwell.”

“Where?”

“Standing on the steps.”

“Which one?”

“The handsome fellow in the dark-blue suit.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tackle him.”

Nick Robinson, manager of the Philadelphia Athletic baseball-team,
stepped quickly toward the Continental Hotel, in front of which Frank
Merriwell was chatting with Jack Ready.

Merriwell and his friends had reached the Quaker City, and the entire
party was stopping at the Continental.

As Robinson approached, he heard Jack Ready observing:

“It’s ever Sunday in this village, but whisper it not to the natives,
unless you desire their everlasting and undying aversion. This is a
perfectly lovely town to rest in, as nothing ever happens here to
disturb the Sabbath calm of the place.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind kicking up a little excitement, to vary the
monotony,” said Frank. “Now, if we could get into a game of baseball,
we might be able to raise the dust.”

“That’s your cue, Nick,” muttered Jack Wilder, who had followed
Robinson closely.

“I beg your pardon, young men,” spoke the baseball magnate; “are you
Frank Merriwell?”

“That’s my name,” admitted Merry.

“And you are looking for a chance to play baseball?”

“Not exactly looking for a chance, though I’d like to indulge in a
little sport of the sort if I could find a team that desired to play
mine.”

“You have your team here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve seen newspaper accounts of your success in defeating everything
you have encountered this season, and I have a team that I fancy is
able to take some of the conceit out of you.”

“What, ho!” cried Ready. “I scent trouble! Methinks the fur will fill
the breeze directly.”

Frank smiled.

“You, sir,” he said quietly, “are like others I have encountered
during our trip, for you fancy I must be conceited because I have
been very successful in defeating fast ball-teams this season. We are
out for sport, sir, and are not afraid to tackle anything that we
come across. At the same time, I hardly think we are conceited.”

“You’re not afraid of anything?”

“Afraid? Why should I be?”

“Then I challenge you to play my team to-morrow. Do you accept?”

“With pleasure. What team do you represent?”

“He’ll want to back out when you tell him,” laughed Wilder, with a
sneering expression.

“Tut! tut!” came from Ready. “He won’t care a sour clam what old team
the gentleman represents. The warmer the team the better it will suit
Mr. Merriwell. Are we going against National Leaguers?”

“I am the manager of the Philadelphia Athletic team,” said Robinson
proudly. “It happens that we have an open date to-morrow. Of course,
we’ll find no trouble in defeating your team, Merriwell; but there
seems to be a foolish impression here that your picked nine of
college chaps must be much faster than it possibly can be, and
several sporting men in town have hinted that you could give us a
hard rub. One man offered to bet me even money that you could hold
the Athletics down to five scores, or less. Now, that is perfectly
ridiculous. Seeing by the papers that you had struck town and were
stopping here, I decided to look you up and find out if you had sand
enough to give us a game to-morrow. Mr. Wilder knows you by sight,
and that is why I brought him along. He pointed you out to me.”

“Well, I am glad you took the trouble,” said Frank. “I was beginning
to fear that this city would not provide us with amusement. What
terms are you willing to play on?”

“Winning team takes all the gate-money.”

“That is agreeable; but you are to do all the advertising and provide
balls and grounds.”

“We’ll play on the Athletic grounds, and I will look out for
everything. All you have to do is to be on hand to begin playing at
half-past three to-morrow. Can I depend on you?”

“You may.”

“You’ll not lose your nerve and back out?”

“Say!” broke in Ready indignantly, “did you ever know Merry to
lose his nerve and back out of anything? Go hence with thy base
insinuations! He’ll be on hand, with the crowd, to give you a hot run
for the gate-money. And I’ll bet you a peck of sweet potatoes that we
beat you! Dost dare take me?”

“There is conceit for you, Mr. Merriwell!” laughed Robinson. “If you
are not troubled with it, your friend is.”

“Nay, nay, gentle stranger,” denied Jack, with a queer flirt of
his hand; “I deny thy allegation. It is not conceit, but it is
confidence. The two words are hardly synonymous.”

“Call it what you like, we’ll take it out of you to-morrow,” nodded
Robinson.

“Wait,” from Frank. “How am I to know that this deal is on the level?
I am not anxious to run into any April-fool business.”

“If you’ll step inside with me,” said Robinson, “I think we’ll find
somebody to identify me and convince you that my word is good. We can
also draw up agreements in regard to the gate-money.”

Merry at once agreed, and they entered the office of the hotel. The
proprietor happened to be in the office, and he readily assured Frank
that Robinson was the manager of the Athletic team and that his word
was good. Then an agreement was drawn up, which both Robinson and
Frank signed, with the proprietor and Ready as witnesses.

Ready was holding in repression his feeling of satisfaction and
delight, for this was just the sort of game Jack longed to get into.

When everything had been arranged satisfactorily, Robinson suggested
that all adjourn to the bar and “take something.” He was surprised
and offended, at first, when Frank declined with politeness.

“I do not drink,” explained Merry. “Of course, if you insist, I’ll
take a plain seltzer, or something of that sort, with you.”

“You can take a cigar,” said Robinson.

“I’d have to give it away if I did.”

“You don’t mean to say that you do not smoke?”

“I never have.”

“Well, well! It would be better for most ball-players if they
followed your example. Drinking has ruined lots of promising young
fellows. I’ve seen fast young players go steadily down-hill from
no apparent cause, but investigation has revealed that they were
drinking right along. They fancied they could do it because they knew
some old stagers who did, and they were careful not to take enough
to become intoxicated. Often they would have a drink before a game.
Then it seemed, when they got warmed up, that the stuff went to their
heads and muddled them somehow so they could not do their best. I’ve
warned many of them in vain. They would insist that they did not take
enough to hurt them, and so they kept on till they were released.”

“But some men who drink are fast players,” broke in Wilder. “I know
more than one.”

“Yes, that may be,” nodded Robinson; “but they would be still faster
if they took nothing at all.”

“Exactly my belief,” asserted Frank. “And no man can have good wind
if he smokes persistently.”

So, without drinking or smoking, they sauntered out of the office to
the steps of the hotel, where Merry had first been observed by the
men.

As they reached the steps their attention was drawn to a shouting,
whooping band of urchins who were following at the heels of Old Joe
Crowfoot.

“Hello!” exclaimed Frank. “Here seems to be some excitement.”

With a dirty red blanket wrapped about his shoulders, the old Indian
came stalking along Chestnut Street, followed by a crowd of whooping
boys of every size and age. He paid not the slightest attention to
the urchins, but walked with all the dignity he could command, his
thin lips pressed together and his black eyes gleaming like the eyes
of an aroused animal.

The boys were led by one big, hulking fellow, who was at least
eighteen years old, and who looked very tough and fierce. This chap
was smoking a cigarette, and had his soiled cap pulled down over one
eye. He walked with the gait of a prize-fighter, his neck thrust
forward and his chin protruding, while his shoulders were hunched.
Now and then he would turn and incite the yelling boys to louder
outbreaks of ridicule and derision.

“What do me eyes behold?” exclaimed Jack Ready. “The noble red man
hath encountered a few samples of the real uncivilized civilization.
I see he is enjoying it greatly.”

“Nothing in the world could make Joe so furious as to be mocked by
boys.”

As Merry spoke, the aged Indian suddenly stopped and turned on his
pursuers.

“Dogs!” he said, in great scorn, yet without lifting his voice.

“Hey?” cried the leader of the young thugs, clenching his fists,
striking a pose, and thrusting his face toward that of the redskin.
“Wot’s dat yer calls us?”

“Dogs!” repeated Old Joe Crowfoot.

“W’y, yer dirty old tan-colored mucker! How dare yer call us dat? Yer
rotten old scalp-lifter! we’ll knock seventeen kinds of stuffin’s out
of yer!”

The expression on the wrinkled face of the old savage was one of
unspeakable scorn.

“Dogs! Buzzards! Squaws!” he flung back.

“Give it ter him, Jim!” cried the boys. “T’ump him, Jim!”

The young thug lifted his clenched fist and shook it under the nose
of the old redskin.

“Take it back!” he snarled. “Swaller yer words, ur I’ll smash yer!”

“Smash him! smash him!” howled the urchins.

“Look out fer his tommyhawk!” shrieked one.

“An’ his scalpin’-knife!” put in another.

Old Joe folded his arms across his breast, making a picturesque
figure.

“Yelping curs!” he said. “Heap no good! Dirt under my feet! I spit on
you!”

“Now I will soak yer!” roared the fellow called Jim, as he swung his
fist back.

Before the blow could fall a lithe figure sprang down the steps of
the hotel, darting past Frank Merriwell, rushed forward, and jumped
between the Indian and the young thug, hurling the latter backward.

“You onery whelp!” exclaimed a clear, fearless voice. “If you try to
touch Old Joe, I’ll make you sorry!”

“Behold!” said Jack Ready; “another Merriwell hath chipped into the
game, and verily I predict that the fur will fly.”

Frank had started forward to interfere between the Indian and his
tormentors, but he paused now, something like a grim smile coming to
his handsome face as he watched his brother thrust the city ruffian
backward.

Dick was developing rapidly under the training of Frank, who
worked systematically with the lad, strengthening his weak points
and improving the strong ones. Nor had Merry failed to give Dick
instructions in the manly art of self-defense. Each day, when
possible, he had spent at least thirty minutes sparring with the lad,
and the progress made by his pupil had amazed Merry.

“Let’s gently sift into this scrap,” urged Ready. “The wrinkled
aborigine must be defended.”

Merry grasped his arm.

“Wait,” he advised. “Let’s see how Dick can handle himself.”

Of course, the hooting urchins had gathered a crowd, but somehow
it happened that no officer appeared to be in sight, therefore the
hoodlums were not dispersed.

The bully gave a gasp of surprise and anger as the clean-faced lad
with the flashing black eyes thrust him backward. He staggered and
nearly fell down, but recovered quickly and gave Dick a fierce look.

“W’ot?” he howled. “W’ot’s dat yer say, kid? W’y, I can break youse
in two widout half-tryin’! Git outer me way, ur I’ll biff yer, an’
ye’ll never know w’ot happened!”

He started forward, but Dick immediately assumed a position of
readiness, retorting:

“Come on, you dirty duffer! Just walk right up and biff me!”

The boys yelled:

“A fight! a fight! Smash him, Jim! Knock his eye out!”

Jim expectorated on his hands.

“Dat’s jest w’ot I’ll do!” he vowed. “I’ll fit der kid fer der
hospital!”

Old Joe looked on without moving, but his hand sought the haft of a
hidden knife, while his lips murmured:

“I kill him, Dick! Cut him heart out!”

“No!” breathed the lad. “Don’t do it, Joe! He’ll not hurt me much.
Don’t be afraid.”

The young thug advanced on Dick, who immediately moved aside to the
left, beginning circling round him.

“Look at der kid!” cried the boys, in derision. “He t’inks he’s a
fighter! Jim’ll knock der eye outer him in less’n t’ree seconds!
T’ump him, Jim!”

The bully fancied Dick was frightened, and he tried to close in
quickly. Then the boy ducked and gave his adversary a body-blow that
made the big rough gasp.

“Hit him! hit him!” howled the boys, as they saw their leader strike
wildly past the head of the nimble stranger.

“Methinks the gentle dub with the crooked eye got a severe jolt in
the bread-basket that time,” observed Jack Ready.

The bully’s left eye had a cast in it.

“Drat ye!” gulped the fellow, as he tried to follow Dick up. “Just
keep still an’ I will----”

He did not say what he’d do; for again they closed, and this time the
youthful thug received a smash on the jaw that made his head ring. He
was astounded, for he had not fancied the slender lad could strike
such a heavy blow. Not only was he surprised, but he was doubly
enraged and from his lips came a roar of rage.

Then the ruffian jumped at Dick in his fiercest manner, his fists
flying out and his arms thrashing the air. From his lips rolled a
torrent of profanity and foul language.

With perfect self-command, which amused and satisfied Frank, Dick
avoided the rushes of the thug and struck him heavily several times.
In a very few seconds these blows drew blood.

The boys who had followed the ruffian looked on in amazement. They
could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes, for all of them had
regarded “Squinty” Jim as a fighter of great ability, and he had
lorded it over them in a high-handed manner.

“Squinty’s gettin’ licked!” one of them finally cried, as if he could
hardly believe it himself.

“It’s a lie!” snarled the big thug. But just then Dick Merriwell’s
fist caught him on the chin and he was knocked down.

The fellow jumped up at once, but that blow had dazed him, and Dick
gave him no chance to recover. The moment the fellow was fairly on
his feet he received another blow on the ear, and went down again.

“Somebody else hit me den!” he howled. “Dey’re all jumpin’ on me,
fellers! Come on an’ give it ter ’em!”

Then, as he scrambled to his feet, he urged the boys to give him aid.
A few of them seemed inclined to do so, but one chap held them back.

“Let Squinty fight it out,” he said. “If he cannot lick dat chap, he
oughter git soaked.”

So the bully received no assistance, and Dick Merriwell proceeded to
polish him off in a most scientific manner, without being once struck
hard himself.

Still, with his arms folded, the old Indian looked on. His face
seemed expressionless as that of a graven image, but the light in his
beady eyes told of the admiration in his heart.

Dick made short work of the bully, who soon lost his spirit when he
found the boy was more than his match and that none of his friends
would aid him.

At last, after being knocked down again, the fellow looked up and
whimpered:

“It ain’t fair! Yer didn’t give me no show!”

The crowd uttered a shout of derision.

“You’re licked!” cried many voices.

“Dat’s right,” said the fellow who had restrained the boys from
aiding the bully. “An’ if dat kid can lick him, I can do it, too! You
ain’t der boss of dis gang no more, Squinty.”

“Get up!” panted Dick Merriwell, whose cheeks were flushed and whose
eyes gleamed. “Get up, and I’ll give you some more of the same sort!”

“He don’t want it!” laughed many.

“You’re a dandy, young fellow!” cried a man. “I’ve seen good men in
my day, but I never saw one handle himself better than you can.
You’ll make a world-beater if you’ll train for the ring.”

Squinty Jim sat up.

“My brother’ll make somebody sorry fer dis!” he declared. “He kin
lick any old t’ing in dis town!”

“His brother is Bud McCann, the prize-fighter,” said somebody. “He’s
playing baseball this year.”

“Here comes a cop!” cried an urchin, and immediately the boys began
to scatter.

Squinty Jim got up, giving Dick a baleful look.

“Youse ain’t seen der last of me!” he grated, wiping the blood from
his bruised face with his sleeve. “I’ll get even wid yer yit, see if
I don’t!”

With this threat he slouched away.




                             CHAPTER XX.

                           HONORED BY ALL.


Frank Merriwell had not interfered. While he did not believe in
fighting, he knew Dick’s cause was just, and he had wished to see if
the boy could take care of himself in such an affair. The result was
decidedly gratifying to Merry.

Old Joe had on many occasions watched Frank giving Dick
sparring-lessons, and the savage had regarded the whole affair with
supreme scorn and contempt. More than once he had tersely expressed
his opinion in regard to it.

Now, however, there was such satisfaction expressed on the old
fellow’s usually stony face that the look could not be mistaken. When
the flushed and triumphant boy turned about after the skulking away
of the bully, the redskin quickly put his arms about the lad, saying:

“Heap good work! Steady Hand teach Injun Heart mighty big white man
trick with him hands. Um can fight white man way heap good! Ugh!”

This was much for the old savage to say, and it gave Dick a thrill of
pride and satisfaction.

“He would have hurt you, Joe,” said the boy. “He was ready to do it!”

“No hurt me.”

“But he was ready to.”

“No hurt me,” insisted the Indian.

“Why not? You could not fight him with your fists.”

“Knife heap ready. Him strike with fist, Joe strike with knife. Cut
him heart in two mighty quick!”

“It is plain that you saved the fellow’s life, Dick,” said Frank, his
hand falling on the shoulder of his brother; “yet I hardly think he
would thank you if he knew it. You showed that I have not wasted my
time and yours in giving you boxing-lessons. I am rather proud of the
way in which you put the young thug out of commission.”

“Richard, my lively young gazelle, it was a sight to gladden the
heart and bring tears of joy to the eye,” put in Jack Ready. “I
wanted to slip into the fracas, and gently t’ump somebody, but your
greedy brother insisted that you should have all the fun. He wouldn’t
let me mingle.”

The policeman now came into the midst of the crowd, and demanded to
know what was happening. He regarded Old Joe with suspicion, and
seemed rather anxious to arrest somebody.

A citizen, however, explained the matter to him, and he looked Dick
Merriwell over curiously.

“That boy?” he asked, as if in doubt.

“That’s the one,” answered the citizen.

“Did up Squinty Jim?”

“He did.”

“I’m glad of it, but it don’t seem possible. Squinty’s one of the
worst characters in this ward, and he’s always fighting and whipping
somebody.”

“He struck more than his match this time.”

“The boy ought to have a medal. Who is he?”

“They say he’s Frank Merriwell’s brother. I don’t suppose you know
who Frank Merriwell is----”

“Don’t I? Say, do you mean Frank Merriwell, the great athlete of Yale
College?”

“Yes. There he is standing beside the boy now.”

“What? Is that the real Frank Merriwell?”

“It is. He’s stopping at the Continental.”

The officer strode up to Merry.

“Beg pardon,” he said, with an air of politeness. “Is what I’ve just
heard true?”

Merry smiled, saying:

“I am sure I can’t say, sir, for I don’t know what you have just
heard.”

“A man just told me that you are the genuine Frank Merriwell of Yale.”

“I must confess that the gentleman told you the truth. I am Frank
Merriwell.”

“And this chap who just did up Squinty Jim is your brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Merriwell,” said the policeman, “I want to shake hands with you.
I have a boy who owes his life to you.”

The earnestness of the officer showed he was perfectly sincere, and
Merry readily shook hands.

“Owes his life to me?” said Frank, in some surprise. “How is that?
What have I done for your boy?”

“Saved his life, and yet you have never seen him to know him. He has
seen you, though. He has seen you play football and baseball. He
has read much about you in the newspapers. He was not a strong boy,
and he early fell into habits of dissipation. He drank and traveled
with a gang. He smoked forty and fifty cigarettes a day. He was fast
becoming a total wreck when he first saw you play football here
against U. of P.

“He talked about your playing for days. Then he began to find out
everything he could about you. Somehow, he learned that you were
not strong at one time, and he also learned that you never smoke,
drink, or carouse. Something led him to resolve to be as much like
you as possible. He had will-power, sir, and he at once quit his old
companions, stopped drinking, and gave up smoking. The last thing was
the hardest to do. It was a hard fight for him, but he conquered.
Everybody had told me he would go into quick consumption.

“That was almost two years ago. To-day my boy is healthy and strong
and manly. He belongs to a Y. M. C. A. gym, where he goes regularly
every night, and they say he is fast becoming an athlete. More than
that, he is working to save money, and is attending a school to fit
himself for college. Mr. Merriwell, I have longed to meet you, and
I’ve often thought of writing to you and telling you the good you had
done my boy. I cannot repay you, sir, but I take off my hat to you as
the model young American, and one every true American should be proud
of!”

Then, before the Continental Hotel in the city of Philadelphia, was
seen the remarkable spectacle of a policeman uncovering his head to
a civilian, a youth whom he had not known by sight twenty minutes
before.

Dick Merriwell had heard the words of the officer, and he thrilled
from his feet to his head, whispering to himself:

“It is my brother! Everybody honors him! Officers take off their hats
to him! All say he is a model American youth. Ah! can I ever become
thus famous and loved! I do not believe it is possible!”

Frank had been touched himself, and he now assured the officer that
he desired to meet his son, which gave the man no small satisfaction,
as he said:

“I’ll bring Bob round. It is one great desire of his life to shake
hands with you, and he’ll be jealous when he hears I’ve got ahead of
him.”

A time was set when Frank would meet the officer’s son, that evening,
and then the policeman saluted and turned away.

“I can’t believe the things me heavenly blue eyes have seen, nor
those me shell-like ears have heard!” came from Jack Ready. “A cop
hath lifted his tile to thee, O most noble snoozer! and his language
was the language of respect, yet thou art not an alderman, nor yet a
political boss. And this in Philadelphia! Ye gods! the heavens will
fall next!”




                             CHAPTER XXI.

                            A HOT OPENING.


It was a remarkable crowd that turned out to witness the game between
Merriwell’s ball-team and the Philadelphia Athletics. It was made up
mainly of young people. A good part of the young men were college
fellows who knew Merriwell by reputation, or had met him.

As the Athletics had shown themselves to be one of the fastest among
the big league teams, it was generally admitted that Merriwell’s nine
would have a hard show to win. Nevertheless, the youthful element of
the gathering was strongly in sympathy with Frank.

But the Athletics had plenty of fans on hand to root for them, and
odds of five to one were offered that the home team would win.

“It’s a shame to see so much good money go begging!” sighed Jack
Ready; “but Merry has given notice that we are to make no bets. The
trouble with him is that he has too much conscience to play baseball.
Why, he wouldn’t even buy an umpire if he knew the other side was
stealing a game! He needs a pair of wings and a harp!”

The Athletics appeared on the field first and got in some
batting-practise. They were not at all inclined to work, but Nick
Robinson was a man who permitted no soldiering, and every man had to
stand up and swing the club a certain number of times.

It was a team of hitters, and they agreed among themselves to put
Merriwell out of the box in less than three innings. They fancied it
would be no trick at all.

When Merriwell’s nine appeared they were received with a shout
of applause from the college men and waving of handkerchiefs in
the hands of the young ladies assembled. Frank was pointed out to
hundreds of girls who were eager to see him, and all declared him
“just perfectly splendid!”

But the appearance of Dick Merriwell in uniform was the surprise of
the day at the start.

“Look at that boy!” exclaimed more than one. “It can’t be he is going
to play!”

But when Merry’s team trotted out onto the field to practise, Dick
went to short. It was not long before it became almost generally
known that the boy was Frank’s brother, which caused the spectators
to watch him with great interest.

It happened that the very first ball batted to Dick went through him,
and that gave the spectators the impression that he could not fill
his position.

“Merriwell is foolish to put him in there,” said more than one. “He
has another man.”

The tenth man was Carker, who was to sit on the bench.

In practise Frank’s team did not show up quite as well as the
professionals, though Merry tried to impart some of his restless
energy to them and fill them with life and spirit.

Rattleton was somewhat oppressed by the magnitude of the task before
them, which Frank had discovered. Merry knew it would be a bad thing
if the others got to feeling that they were outclassed.

When they came in from practise the positions of both teams had been
given to the scorers thus:

     MERRIES.                     ATHLETICS.

  Ready, 3d b.                  Hayward, 1st b.
  Carson, rf.                   McGlinkey, rf.
  Hodge, c.                     Waldron, 2d b.
  Browning, 1st b.              Bowers, c.
  Gamp, cf.                     Webster, lf.
  Swiftwing, lf.                Joiler, ss.
  F. Merriwell, p.              Maloney, cf.
  Rattleton, 2d b.              Flobert, 3d b.
  D. Merriwell, ss.             Nesbitt, p.

The home team chose to take the field first, and Ready was sent to
the bat.

As they sat on the bench Dick Merriwell observed a fellow on the
bench of the home players, and a second look showed the boy that it
was his antagonist of the day before, Squinty Jim. He was talking to
a stocky-looking chap in the uniform of the Athletics, the latter
seeming to be a spare man on the team, and Dick noticed that they
were looking across toward the bench of the visitors.

At once the boy was struck by the belief that they were talking about
him. He had heard that the young bully had a brother who played with
the Athletics, but the name of McCann was not on the batting-order.

The umpire’s command to play ball drew the lad’s attention from the
pair on the opposite bench, and he fell to watching Ready.

Jack was a confident chap, and a good fellow to head the
batting-order, although not a hard hitter. His eye was good, and he
seldom went after bad ones, which made it possible for him to get
first on balls more than any other man on the team.

To-day, however, Jack was soon to find that he could not work Nesbitt
for a pass to first. The Athletic pitcher was satisfied that the
youthful players against him would be dazed by his speed, and so he
began by “burning ’em over.”

Two strikes were called on Jack in short order, and he had not swung
for either of them.

Frank signed for Jack to hit it out.

Nesbitt was laughing, and several of the players behind him assured
him that the “kids” could not see the ball.

The third ball came with fearful speed.

Ready simply held up his bat, gripping it firmly, and let the ball
hit it. The result was surprising, for a clean single was secured in
this manner.

Then Frank went down to the coaching-line by first and opened up.

This hit won for Ready a round of applause, while Nesbitt looked
surprised.

“Don’t mind that, Nes!” cried the men behind him. “It was an
accident.”

Carson advanced to the plate, taking a look toward Frank. Merry
signaled for Berlin to bunt toward third.

Nesbitt gathered himself, and sent the next ball over with the same
wonderful speed. In the most scientific manner possible, Carson
bunted, and the ball rolled toward third.

Ready had started “with the pitch,” and therefore he was too far on
his way to be stopped.

Flobert ran in and got the ball, saw he could not stop Ready, and
threw to first.

With the speed of a frightened jack-rabbit, Carson raced down to
first, and he reached the bag ahead of the ball.

It was a close decision, and the captain of the home team raised a
kick when the umpire declared it safe; but the umpire quickly quieted
the protest, ordering the next batter up.

Hodge was the man, and he longed to hit the ball hard, believing he
could drive in at least one score. Merry, however, signed for Bart to
bunt toward first.

Frank’s system of signals was complete, and both base-runners knew
just what was to happen if Hodge could meet the ball right.

Holding his bat loosely, Bart succeeded in bunting the very first
ball, sending it rolling along just inside the chalk-line that led
from the home plate to first bag.

Hodge sped toward first, while Ready raced up to third and Carson
went down to second.

Bowers sprang after the ball, but it rolled along beyond his reach
in a most provoking manner, and he secured it just too late to throw
Bart out.

This clever opening by Frank’s team set the spectators on edge and
astounded the home team.

Nesbitt had fancied the youngsters could not get five safe hits off
him, yet three had been made by the first three batters to face him,
although two of them were bunts.

At this point Frank fancied he had made a mistake in placing Browning
fourth on the list, for Bruce could not sacrifice very well, and a
sacrifice hit would make it easy to bring in a run.

Bruce had seen the others bunting, and that led him to believe
Nesbitt easy to hit. He picked out his own heavy bat and loafed up to
the plate.

Rattleton was chattering away near third, and every one was on edge
for what was to follow.

The first ball was high, and Bruce let it pass.

“One ball,” was the decision.

The next was wide.

“Two balls.”

Then came a sharp drop, which fooled the big fellow, who fancied it
a straight one.

Bruce fanned.

“One strike!”

Nesbitt followed with a rise, and Browning struck under it.

“Two strikes!”

“Got him in a hole, Nes!” was the cry.

Nesbitt ventured to waste a ball, but Browning did not bite at it.
The next one would have to be over, or a run might be forced in.

Frank had decided that Nesbitt was a heady pitcher in a tight place,
and he began to fear that Browning would not prove equal to the
emergency.

Ready was taking a long lead off third at every pitch, resolved to go
in the instant he found an opportunity.

Nesbitt held the ball as long as permissible, made sure every man was
in the proper place, looked hard at Browning, then sent in one with
a movement that seemed to indicate it would be very speedy.

Right there in that moment the professional twirler showed his brains
and nerve, for the ball was a very slow one, sailing up to the plate
like a wounded duck.

Browning was fooled completely, for he slashed at it far too soon,
failing to hit it at all.

“You’re out!” declared the umpire, as the catcher held the ball.

A shout went up from the admirers of the home team. Browning looked
disgusted as he flung aside his bat and retired to the bench.

“I’m a chump!” he growled. “Why, a baby could have knocked that out
of the lot!”

“Let him gug-gug-gug-give me one of them darn things!” muttered Gamp,
as he picked out a bat. “Bet a Hubbard squash I’ll hit it!”

But Nesbitt started with a high one that pulled Gamp easily, and a
strike was called.

More than ever Merry feared that the clever work at the start would
be wasted through the failure of the following batters to connect
with the sphere.

Another high one followed, but Joe shook his head, though he came
near swinging.

“No, ye dud-dud-don’t!” he muttered.

Nesbitt grinned. Then came a drop, and a second strike was called on
Joe, who failed to swing at the ball.

Again Nesbitt grinned.

Gamp was anxious now, and his anxiety led him to go after an out
drop, which he could not touch.

“You’re out!” declared the umpire.

Another shout went up, and the home players laughed loudly.

Gamp’s face was red as a beet.

“I oughter go sus-sus-sus-soak my head!” he stuttered, as he retired
to the bench.

Swiftwing was the next hitter. He stalked out with his bat, and
somebody raised a whoop.

“Fan the chief, Nes!” cried somebody from the bleachers.

The pitcher showed his teeth again, and then he put over a high one,
to start with.

Swiftwing half-swung at the ball, but held his bat in time, so that
the umpire called it a ball. An in shoot followed, and the young
Indian was compelled to spring back from the plate.

Then came a drop, and Swiftwing lifted a high foul back of first
base, which was easily captured by Hayward.

The thing Merry had feared had happened. For all of the clever work
at the start, not a score had been made, and Nesbitt had shown
himself a heady pitcher in a tight place.

“Hard luck,” said Merry, but Swiftwing grimly shook his head as he
trotted out onto the field.

Hodge was sore, and he betrayed it.

“What’s the use of bunting?” he exclaimed. “If I had hit the ball
out, we’d made one run, anyhow.”

“If one of the batters behind you had hit the ball out, the chances
are that more than one run would have come in,” said Merry.

“But they didn’t hit it.”

“You might not have hit it.”

But Bart felt that he might, and he continued to look black and
dissatisfied.

Hodge was once more in good form for catching, and Merry felt that
his wrist would stand to use the double-shoot when the emergency
demanded.

Hayward seized a bat and rushed up to the plate, in order not to give
Frank a chance to limber up by throwing a few over to first. Frank
looked at the fellow a moment, simply observing:

“That’s all right, my friend.”

“I’m glad it is,” sneered Hayward. “Put ’em over, and I’ll bust the
stitches in the old thing.”

The action of the batter had placed Merry on his mettle, and he gave
the fellow a sharp in shoot at the start.

Hayward fancied the ball was straight over, and he swung hard. It was
a foul. As they were playing the game under old rules, this did not
count against the batter.

“Try another,” he urged.

Frank seemed to do so, but the ball dropped sharply just before
reaching the batter, and Hayward did not touch it.

“That’s pretty clever!” said the batter. “Try another, young fellow.”

Merry now assumed a position that told Hodge he would resort to the
double-shoot. He started the ball straight at Hayward, who jumped
back, only to see it give a queer double twist and cut a corner of
the plate. The umpire, however, fancied his eyes had deceived him,
and called a ball.

Again Merry used the double-shoot, but this time he reversed the
curves, and Hayward did not lift his bat from his shoulder. He was
amazed and disgusted when the umpire called a strike.

Following this, Merry sent in a sharp rise that nearly dragged the
batter off his feet in an endeavor to chase it. It was not even a
foul tip, and Bart smothered the ball in his big mitt.

“You’re out!” cried the umpire.

“He doesn’t seem to need to limber up, dear sir,” chirped Jack Ready.
“Oh, dear, dear! what queer quirks he can put into the ball! Isn’t it
really and truly remarkable!”

“You’re a mark, Hay!” laughed McGlinkey, as he picked up the bat the
first hitter had tossed aside. “Before I’d let him strike me out!
Why, I’m going to knock the ball a mile!”

He did not succeed in coming anywhere near keeping his word, for
Merry deceived him on the very first one pitched over. It was an in
shoot, and the ball struck the handle of the bat close to McGlinkey’s
knuckles. Up into the air went the sphere, and Merry easily captured
it as it came down.

“La! la!” came from Jack Ready. “Isn’t it awfully easy! But it isn’t
fair not to give anybody else a show. The rest of us want something
to do, just to keep warm.”

Now Merriwell’s admirers broke loose in a bunch, and the way they
shouted for him was enough to warm the heart of his brother.

“Everybody seems to know Frank,” thought Dick. “And they all think
him a wonder. Hear them cheer for him!”

Hodge was feeling better, and the frown was disappearing from
his face, for he saw that Merry was in the best possible trim,
which meant that there would be little heavy hitting done by the
professionals in that game.

“Keep it up, Merry,” he said. “They can’t touch you to-day, old man.”

Waldron was one of the surest batters on the home team. He picked
up his favorite slugger, and advanced to the plate with it over his
shoulder.

“Strike this man out, Merriwell,” cried somebody on the bleachers.
“I’ll bet a hundred dollars you can’t do it!”

This was enough to indicate just how Waldron was regarded as a
batter, and it made Merry decidedly cautious. He began with a sharp
drop, which Waldron fouled.

“That won’t do!” Merriwell mentally exclaimed. “He can hit drops.”

A rise followed, but it was higher than the batter’s shoulders when
it passed over the plate, and Waldron let it pass.

“One ball,” said the umpire.

Bart called for the double-shoot. Merry had not wished to use it on
the fellow so soon, but he nodded and sent it in.

Waldron saw the ball start for him and begin to curve quickly, as if
going over the plate. Regarding it as an ordinary out, the batter
swung. To his amazement, the ball reversed and shot in, striking him
glancingly on the wrist.

Waldron dropped the bat and started for first, but the umpire
promptly sent him back.

“I was hit!” cried the fellow. “Can’t I take my base on that?”

“Not when you strike at the ball,” was the answer. “Stand up there
and hit.”

So Waldron was forced to do so, and he proceeded to fan out, for all
that he was regarded as such a remarkable batter.

The first inning was over, and neither side had scored. The visitors
had filled the bags, but not one of the home team had reached first
in safety.

This opening seemed to indicate that the game would be a hot one.




                            CHAPTER XXII.

                          A DASTARDLY TRICK.


The crowd roared its approval, for Frank Merriwell had shown himself
quite in the same class as Nesbitt, the professional. Indeed, the
work of Merry in the box had aroused Nesbitt’s jealousy, and he
resolved to show them that he was quite as good as the former great
Yale pitcher.

“I object to this, Merriwell!” cried Ready, as he trotted in from
third. “If you don’t give me a chance to show what I can do in this
game, I’ll quit your old team just as soon as you don’t want me any
more. I won’t play with this team a minute after it disbands, so
there, now!”

“In your old form, Merry,” said Hodge. “Why, you can make the ball
cut any kind of quirks to-day. The double is right at your command.”

Bart’s anger had passed, and his face wore a pleasant look that was
almost a smile.

“The same old dim-jandy!” spluttered Harry Rattleton, who had trotted
in at Merry’s side. “Why, you can spock the knots--I mean you can
knock the spots off any professional in the country!”

“Tell me about that when I’ve grown too old to pitch any more,”
smiled Merry. “I’ll enjoy hearing about it then.”

Dick Merriwell flew past them toward the bench, turning cart-wheels
as he went. He wound up with a handspring and a burst of wild
laughter that attracted general attention.

On the bench of the home players Squinty Jim was saying to the fellow
in the uniform of the Athletic players:

“Dat kid is der one, Bud, an’ I wants ye ter break his ribs der fust
punch. Dat’ll git me even wid him.”

“Oh, go on an’ lick him yerself!” returned the other fellow. “I’d be
’shamed ter hit a babby like dat.”

“Say, he ain’t no babby, Bud; he’s a holy terror.”

“Yer ain’t goin’ ter tell me ag’in dat he done yer widout help?”

“Well, he----”

“If ye does, Jim, ye ain’t no broder of mine. Ye oughter lick dat boy
wid one hand tied behind yer an’ yer eyes shut.”

“Oh, I might ’a’ done it,” said the young ruffian, “but all his
friends was wid him.”

“Thought you said none of ’em touched yer?”

“Well, none of ’em did--’cept his broder.”

“Frank Merriwell?”

“Yes.”

“Wot did he do?” demanded the fellow in uniform sharply. “If he done
anyt’ing to my broder----”

Squinty Jim saw his chance, and he glibly lied:

“He tripped me up once, dat’s all.”

“Is dat all?” exclaimed the other, his bulldog face getting purple.

“Jest w’en I had der little cuss, too,” said Squinty.

“W’y didn’t yer tell me dat at fust?” harshly demanded the other.

“Well, it’s der kid I’m der sorest over. He’s der one I wanted ter
see done up.”

“It’s der odder mug I’m der sorest over. Tripped yer, did he? Well,
mebbe he’ll find dere are odders can do some trippin’.”

The fellow in uniform was Bud McCann, brother to Jim McCann, who was
familiarly known as Squinty Jim. Bud had started out as a pugilist,
but had drifted into baseball, having proved himself a handy utility
man for either the infield or outfield. His old fighting-spirit was
aroused by the falsehood told him by Jim, which he readily swallowed,
as he could not fancy it possible that Squinty had been whipped
fairly without assistance by Dick Merriwell.

Squinty was not particularly anxious to get at Frank, but he did
desire vengeance on Dick. He saw, however, that the only way to get
Bud thoroughly aroused was to tell him a falsehood concerning the
encounter.

“Wot’ll yer do, Bud?” he asked.

“Just wait, an’ mebbe you’ll see,” was the answer. “I kinder feel
like gittin’ at dat fresh college guy, anyhow. Dese college chaps
make me sick! Dey t’ink dey must be somebody just because dey has
been ter college. Now, wot good does goin’ ter college do anybody?
All dis guff ’bout an edercation gives me a pain! Wot’s der use of
knowin’ a lot of truck about Latin or Greek? Give me der English
language, an’ jest as long as I knows how ter handle dat as well as
I does I won’t take a back seat fer no college bloke.”

“Look!” exclaimed Squinty. “He’s the first batter this time.”

“An’ I’ll bet my shirt Nesbitt fans him.”

Frank Merriwell had picked out his favorite bat and advanced to the
plate. Nesbitt smiled when he saw Merry come up, thinking Frank would
be easy, as, in most cases, pitchers are not good hitters.

The catcher had adjusted his mask and body-protector, and he gave the
pitcher a sign. The latter nodded, then sent in a speedy in shoot
that caused Merry to dodge.

“One ball,” called the umpire.

Frank stood up to the plate again.

“Put him back, Mr. Umpire,” requested Nesbitt. “He’s too close.”

But Merry was in his box, and the umpire declined to move him. Again
Nesbitt used the in shoot, but this time he caused Frank to get still
farther back.

“Two balls.”

“Now comes an out,” decided Merry, and he was right, for the pitcher
tried to pull him on the next one.

When Frank refused to fan, Nesbitt found another ball had been called
on him.

“He doesn’t dare let you hit it, Merry!” cried Jack Ready.

“Don’t I?” muttered the pitcher. “See if he’ll try this one.”

He sent over a pretty one, but Frank was playing the game, and he did
not swing at it.

“One strike!” exclaimed the umpire.

The pitcher followed with another of the same kind.

“Two strikes!”

Then Nesbitt tried just what Frank fancied he would. He started the
ball high, but gave it a drop, so it fell as it was about to pass
Frank.

But it never passed. Merry hit it fair and lined it out.

It was a clean single, but Frank took a desperate chance of making
second. The fielder saw what Frank was trying to do, and made a poor
throw in his haste to catch Merry. Frank slid and went under the hand
of the baseman, who tried to reach him with the ball.

“Safe!” said the umpire.

“Wasn’t it pretty?” cried Jack Ready, as he pranced down to third.
“Why, he’s the only fellow on the ground who could make a two-bagger
out of that dink hit! Come on, Merry, old bird! get your wings into
gear and cover space!”

Nesbitt was purple with rage. The great crowd was shouting its
approval of Merriwell’s work, and the excitement seemed intense.

Rattleton was nervous, for he had not yet recovered from his original
conviction that the professionals outclassed Frank’s team, and he
felt himself shivering a little when he advanced to the plate to
strike.

Nesbitt resorted to his speediest ball, sending it over high.

Frank took lots of ground on the pitch, and Bowers failed to hold the
ball, which gave Merry a chance to try for third.

Never in his life had Frank made better speed than he did on that
effort to steal, knowing that the ball had not gone far from the
reach of the catcher.

Bowers got the ball quickly, and lined it down to third. Again Merry
slid, and again he went under the hand that reached for him with the
ball in its grasp.

“Safe!” came once more from the umpire.

Now the roar of applause took on a new note, shrill and joyous,
telling that hundreds of girls were shrieking with delight.

“Why, he’ll steal home in a minute!” cried Ready, as the uproar
subsided. “Couldn’t stop him from scoring with a shotgun! It’s a
pleasant little way he has of winning games. La! la! Isn’t he a
peach, girls?”

“He’s all right!” cried scores of voices. “Hurrah for Frank
Merriwell!”

Rattleton looked toward Merry, who gave him the sign to sacrifice.
Then Harry picked out an opening between second base and first, and
resolved to put the ball through it if possible.

It was not an easy thing, however, to place a hit with Nesbitt in the
box, and Rattleton simply succeeded in popping up a little fly that
was gathered in by Waldron.

Frank leaped off third, as if contemplating an attempt to score after
the ball was caught, but Waldron was too good to be lured into a bad
throw, and Merry was forced to retreat.

Now it was Dick’s turn to hit.

“Oh, what fruit!” cried Joiler. “He couldn’t hit it out of the
diamond, anyhow. Put the ball right over, Nes.”

Nesbitt decided to do so, and the first one fairly whistled.

Frank, however, had given the boy a sign for a bunt, and Dick simply
held up his bat, letting it be loose in his hands and drawing it
back the least bit as the ball struck it.

The result was a beautiful bunt toward first.

Frank was coming down the line when the bunt was made, and he must
have scored had not something happened.

From somewhere a bat came flying out and fell between Merry’s feet,
so that he was tripped and flung headlong.

A shout of astonishment and indignation rose from the witnesses of
this dastardly trick.

Men and women rose to their feet and uttered their angry indignation
in that shout.

Frank had been thrown heavily, and he seemed stunned for a moment.
Before he could recover, the ball was thrown across to Flobert, who
tagged him.

Then Merry got up, and his eyes sought and found the fellow who had
thrown the bat. It was Bud McCann, and Merry went after the fellow in
short order.

McCann, fancying himself a fighter of ability, did not try to get
away.

“You cur!” grated Frank, as he sprang at McCann and grasped him by
the shoulder.

“Git out!” returned the fellow, making a pass at Merry’s face.

Afterward Bud was sorry he tried to strike Frank then, for, an
instant later, a hard fist smote him between the eyes, knocking him
down.

McCann jumped up quickly and went for Frank before any one could
interfere. Merry simply parried the fellow’s second blow and gave him
such a terrible thump that McCann was hurled to the ground fifteen
feet away.

Then the players closed in to separate them, but there was no need of
bothering, for the prize-fighting ball-player had been finished off
in short order, and it was necessary to pour water over him before he
could tell his own name.

Squinty Jim was dazed with astonishment, for he had fancied that his
brother would make short work of Frank Merriwell. When it was all
over, Squinty fancied it must be a dream.

Then came a brief argument over the proper thing to do, and the
umpire decided to send Frank back to third, for all that Merry
insisted that the proper decision was to give him a run. However,
McCann swore he didn’t throw the bat, and there were several others
who asserted that the trick was done by an outsider. Of course, it
was a lie, but on the strength of it Frank was returned to third.

Merry had not said a word, but his fall had given his wrist a bad
wrench, and he was worried. Not many weeks before he had sprained
that same wrist severely, which prevented him from pitching in
several games, and now he was afraid it had been hurt again.

Dick had reached first, and only one man was out. Ready came to the
bat. Frank signed for him to fan at the first one, giving Dick a
chance to go down to second.

That signal was obeyed, and the boy scooted for second, while a
strike was called on Jack.

The catcher did not make a bluff at throwing Dick out.

Once more it seemed that Merriwell’s team would be sure to get in a
run.

“Leave it to me!” said Ready cheerfully. “I’ll bump the ball a mile
or two.”

“Bump that!” cried the catcher, as Nesbitt sent in another speedy one.

Jack went after it hard, but the curve fooled him, and he did not
connect.

“Try another,” he urged.

Nesbitt gave him an out drop, and he stopped his bat in time to avoid
the penalty.

Then came a drop that got down too quick for Ready, and two strikes
were called.

“It’s the same thing over again, Nes,” came from Waldron. “They can
never score.”

Ready was disgusted and desperate. He realized that he could not do
much trying to hit the ball hard, and so he resolved on an attempt to
sacrifice.

Unfortunately for Jack, he met the ball a trifle too hard, and it
went straight into the hands of Waldron, who picked it up clean and
whirled as if to throw it to the plate or to third. This forced
Frank back to third, and then Waldron quickly threw Ready out at
first.

Two men were gone, and now it did seem that the visitors had little
show of making a run.

“T’rowin’ dat bat between Merriwell’s feet’s wot kept ’em from
scorin’, Bud,” said Squinty, who was again on the bench at the side
of his brother.

“T’rowin’ dat bat at him is wot gave me dis eye!” growled Bud. “I
didn’t s’pose dat gilly could hit like dat, else I’d been ready fer
him.”

“Dat’s der way wid me,” said Jim. “I didn’t have no idea his kid
broder could fight like he can.”

“But I’ll settle wid Merriwell yit!” vowed Bud. “Next time I’ll soak
him hard!”

“An’ I’m goin’ ter git a crack at der kid,” asserted Squinty. “I’ll
knock his everlastin’ block off!”

Carson looked determined enough as he came up to hit. He felt the
responsibility of the occasion and wondered if he could meet it.
Something told him that the game was to be one in which a single lost
opportunity might stand for defeat.

Carson let two balls pass, one of which was called a strike. Then
he met one and sent it out on a line. The pitcher tried to dodge,
turning his back so that the ball struck him between the shoulders
and bounded off in a direct line to the short-stop, who gathered it
in and whistled it over to first.

Berlin was out, and again, for all of Frank’s energy and skill in
base-running, not a score had come in.

Frank covertly felt of his wrist as he walked into the box, finding
it sore and lame. Bowers hastened to get out in batting position, so
that Frank would not have a chance to limber up.

“Use him the way you did Hayward, Merry,” cried Hodge, giving the
sign for the double-shoot at the start.

Merry shook his head, fearing to try it with his wrist feeling as it
did.

Bart called for an out, and Merry sent one in. Bowers let it pass
without stirring.

The next one was a high in shoot, and the batter let that go by.

“Put ’em over,” he said.

Frank resorted to a high one, and Bowers got against it savagely,
driving out a single. He was not satisfied to stop on first, however,
but tried to follow Merry’s example in stretching the hit into a
two-bagger.

Swiftwing got the ball and lined it to second. Bowers slid at
Rattleton with his spikes, having found Harry was waiting for him
with the ball. The spikes cut Rattleton’s leg and tore his trousers,
but he placed the ball onto the runner, putting him out. At the same
time he was hurled down on Bowers, into whose stomach he drove his
knee with great violence.

Bowers lay still on the ground after the umpire declared him out, and
he was found to be unconscious.

“It’s his own fault!” declared scores on the bleachers and in the
grand stand. “He tried to spike Merriwell’s second-baseman. He got
just what he deserved.”

After a time Bowers revived, and was assisted from the ground, but he
was hurt so badly that it was necessary to pull him out of the game.

Bud McCann was given his place, for McCann could catch as well as he
could do anything else.

Webster, the next hitter, picked out a good one, and drove it almost
directly over the third base, but Ready made a lucky jab at it,
stopped it, got it up, and threw the fellow out at first.

“Ah-ha!” cried Jack, in apparent satisfaction. “Now we are getting
something to do! I thought Merry would not be greedy and keep all the
fun to himself.”

Joiler scowled blackly as he came up to hit. The manner in which the
game was running did not suit him at all.

Merry started with a high one, but Joiler would not go after it. Then
followed a quick out drop, but not even that one pulled the batter.

“Cut the plate, old boy!” cried Carson.

“Pup-pup-pup-put it right over!” came from Gamp.

“Hake nim mit it--I mean make him hit it!” spluttered Rattleton.

“Nobody walks,” rumbled Browning.

“Give us a little exercise, Frankie,” urged Ready.

“We’re longing for it,” piped up Dick.

Then Frank put it right over, and Joiler hit it a terrible rap, that
sounded like the report of a small cannon.

“Get after that for exercise!” he cried, as he scooted for first.

“Home run!” howled the crowd, again rising in a body and staring
after the ball.

The sphere was sailing toward deep center, and it seemed that it must
pass high over the head of Gamp, who had started on a run the moment
the hit came.

“He can’t touch it!” was the cry.

Indeed, it looked impossible for the long-legged youth to get
anywhere near the ball, but he was covering ground at great speed,
and he did not slacken a bit.

It required good judgment in such a case, and Gamp displayed it, for
he ran like a deer until he fancied the ball must be coming down,
when he turned his head and saw it sailing earthward above him.

Just as the ball was falling Joe made a great leap into the air and
clutched it. Down he went, turning completely over, but he came up
immediately, holding the ball in his hand.

The decision of the umpire could not be heard, for the uproar that
came from the spectators was the greatest yet heard on the ground
that day.

Never had a fielder in Philadelphia made such an astonishing catch,
and the crowd went wild with admiration.

Joiler ran all the way round the bases, and then would not believe it
when he was told the ball had been caught and he was out. He swore
Gamp must have had another ball, for he felt certain the right ball
had passed over Joe’s head at least twenty feet.




                            CHAPTER XXIII.

                            THE FIRST RUN.


“What’s the matter, Merry?” asked Bart anxiously, as Frank came in to
the bench. “You did not use the double-shoot once in that inning.”

“Oh, why not give the boys something to do?” said Frank. “They are
shouting for it.”

He did not think it advisable to let Bart know his wrist had been
injured. Still, knowing Merry as he did, Hodge seemed to feel that
something was wrong, and this thought was in his mind when he picked
out a bat and stepped up to the plate.

Two innings had passed without a score, and now Bart was resolved to
do something to put the Merries into the game.

Nesbitt realized at last that he was up against something more than
a lot of “easy marks,” and he decided that the snap was not so great
as he had fancied at the outset.

Bart was cool, although he appeared anxious, and Nesbitt’s caution
led him into the mistake of giving the batter a pass to first. Hodge
flung aside his bat and trotted down, while Merry immediately took a
position on the coaching-line.

Crouching there, Frank gave the signal to “hit and run,” knowing
Browning would find it difficult to bunt or sacrifice.

The first one was good enough, and Bruce met it. Already Hodge was
scooting for second.

The ball went straight at Joiler, who fell over himself in his
anxiety to pick it up quick enough for a double play. The ball rolled
between the feet of the short-stop and avoided his hand a moment.
When he got it he made a snap throw to Waldron on second, and,
without hesitation, Hodge slid feet first for the bag.

Waldron came down on Hodge with the ball, but he went over onto his
head and shoulders.

“Out!” said the umpire.

Waldron lay on the ground groaning when Bart got up. It was found
that he had injured his shoulder, and time was called. A doctor soon
announced that the shoulder was displaced, and it was necessary to
set it at once. Waldron could play no more in that game.

Robinson had not fancied more than one substitute would be needed,
yet now there was a call for another.

“Give me time enough, and I’ll have another man,” he said, as he
hurried away to the dressing-room beneath the grand stand.

In a very short space of time he reappeared in uniform.

Not many years before this Nick Robinson had been reckoned a fast
infielder. He had kept in practise by often getting onto the field
with his men, and now he welcomed the opportunity to get into a game
of this sort.

Robinson was given a hand as he trotted out onto the diamond, which
he acknowledged by touching his cap.

Hodge was out, Browning was on first, and Gamp was the hitter.

During the wait Frank had sought to impart some of his restless
energy to Bruce, drilling into the big fellow the importance of
playing a lively game and working hard for scores. Merry knew Bruce
could run when he let himself out, but Browning seemed too lazy to
make the circle of the bases in less than twenty minutes.

Gamp understood that the big fellow would attempt to steal, and
he regarded the matter as a very foolish piece of business on
Merriwell’s part.

“Frank ought to know Bruce cuc-cuc-cuc-can’t run faster than a
snail,” thought Joe.

However, he obeyed the sign, which was for him to slash at the first
ball pitched. This he did most successfully, missing it easily, and
falling backward to bother the catcher.

Gamp’s floundering about bothered McCann just long enough to make
it impossible to catch Browning, who ran with most surprising speed
for him. However, McCann threw, and the runner was forced to slide,
which he did.

“That’s the stuff!” cried Frank encouragingly. “Just see how easy it
is.”

“Let him try it again!” muttered McCann sourly. “Let anybody try it.
See if I don’t git der next duffer w’ot goes down.”

With Browning on second, Gamp longed to hit the ball hard, and he
succeeded in fouling it three times in succession. Then he put up a
long fly to right field, on which Browning ran the moment the ball
fell into the hands of McGlinkey.

McGlinkey threw to Waldron, who wheeled about with the ball in his
hands.

Browning had covered ground with great speed and was on his way from
third to the home plate.

Uttering a low curse, McCann ran out after the ball, caught it, and
plunged back in a mad effort to stop the score.

“Slide!” came from Merriwell, and Browning went forward in a headlong
plunge.

McCann jumped on Bruce with his full weight, but Browning had scored.

“Dirty ball, dirty ball!” cried many voices. “Put him out!”

Browning flung McCann aside and got up.

“If you try anything like that again,” said the big fellow, “I’ll
paralyze you!”

“Oh, g’wan!” sneered the catcher. “I’m playin’ der game, dat’s all.”

“A dirty game.”

“Wot’s der matter? Youse chaps has knocked out two of our men
a’ready. Wotcher kickin’ fer?”

“So you are trying to get even. I think I’ll hit you a few, anyhow!”

But Browning did not do so, for the players interfered again.

“What a lovely, quiet game of baseball!” chirped Jack Ready. “It’s a
positive pleasure to take part in such a game. I think somebody will
get killed a few times before the fracas is over.”

“But we have scored!” laughed Dick Merriwell. “We are going to win!”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” warned Carker dolefully. “No game is won
till it’s over.”

Swiftwing came up to the plate, but no one was on a base ahead of
him, and he simply put up a fly that was easily handled at third.

The Merries, however, had made the first run.

“Wot’s der matter wid youse fellers?” said Bud McCann as the home
team came in to the bench. “Is yer goin’ ter let dis gang of kids
walk off wid der game?”

“Don’t talk so much with your face, Bud,” came from Robinson. “There
is plenty of time. Wait till the streak breaks and you’ll see the
youngsters go all to pieces. That’s the way with young teams. I’ve
never seen one that could hang together and fight an up-hill game
against old stagers.”

“But we’re der ones wot has der up-hill game ter fight.”

“They’ve made only one score.”

“Dat may be ernough fer dis kind of a game.”

“Nonsense! We’ll make ten runs before we are through, see if we
don’t. All we have to do is to keep right after them. See how hard we
hit the ball last time. Start it off, Maloney, by driving out a nice
little single.”

Maloney, the first hitter, vowed that he would, and walked up to the
plate with the air of a conqueror.

The first ball was an underhand rise, and the batter popped it into
the air, so that Merry easily handled it when it came down. The first
man was out. Maloney swore beneath his breath as he retired to the
bench.

Flobert went after an out shoot, and up went another infield fly,
which Ready secured.

Nesbitt was not a heavy hitter, and Merry easily caused him to fan at
the first two.

“What do you think of that?” cried Ready. “They go out in order just
as fast as they get up to strike.”

Nesbitt, however, did not fan, as expected, but drove a hot one at
Dick Merriwell, who jumped for it, failed to handle it, and let the
runner reach first. Dick ran back for the ball, which had gone
through him. Seeing this, Nesbitt started for second.

Dick got the ball, picked it up quickly, threw toward second, but
threw so high that the ball went ten feet over Rattleton’s head.

Over second raced the runner, while both Browning and Carson got
after the ball, which was bounding merrily away toward the fence.

Carson reached it first and saw Nesbitt crossing third on the dead
run. Nothing but a clean throw to the plate would stop a score, and
Berlin did his best to make it. The throw was too high, Hodge being
forced to retreat a few feet to get the ball, and Nesbitt crossed the
pan with the score that tied.

Then the rooters for the home team vented their delight with wild
howls of joy, and Robinson said to Hayward:

“We’ve got them going. If you can start right in hitting, we’ll win
the game in this inning.”

Hayward felt that this was true, and he stepped up to the plate
overflowing with confidence and determination.

Merry gave Robinson a drop, and the latter missed it cleanly. Then,
just when the fellow was looking for a variation, Frank put over
another of the same kind and fooled him again. Hayward muttered
something to himself, and Frank laughed. The batter gripped his
stick, thinking:

“He’ll waste the next two.”

Then, when he was expecting a “bender,” Frank put the next one
straight over, and Hayward let it pass.

“You’re out!” came from the umpire.

Hayward savagely flung his bat aside, while the great crowd cheered
loudly.

Again Frank Merriwell was the first one to hit.

Bud McCann got close under the bat and gave the signal to Nesbitt,
who started with a high one. Frank let it pass, and a ball was called.

Then the pitcher started one right at Merry, but Frank fancied it
would curve over, so he stood up and swung to meet it. As he did so
the hand of McCann struck the bat aside, and Frank did not touch the
ball.

Merry turned and gave McCann a hard look. Then he spoke to the
umpire, saying:

“Mr. Umpire, will you please keep watch of this man? He fouled my bat
that time.”

“Dat’s a lie!” cried the catcher. “I never touched yer bat at all!
Ye’re a big stiff if yer says so!”

“Dat’s right, Bud!” cried Squinty. “I was watchin’, an’ he is lyin’
erbout it!”

Frank felt like forcing the fellow to swallow his words, but he
wished no further trouble in the game, and so he simply prepared to
strike again.

Bud McCann fancied he had driven Merry into his boots, and it gave
him a feeling of satisfaction.

“You’re a big blow!” he muttered loudly enough for Frank to hear.
“Wait till I git anodder chance to t’ump yer! I’ll fix yer, see if I
don’t!”

Nesbitt sent in a sharp curve, which Merry let pass, as it was not
over; but, to Frank’s dismay, the umpire called another strike.

“Dat’s der stuff!” exclaimed the catcher. “He’s easy, Nes. Put ’em
right over der platter.”

But Merry was not at all nervous, and he forced the pitcher to give
him a good one that was right over.

Frank felt confident of meeting that ball and getting a hit, but once
more McCann touched his bat as he swung, and he simply put up a foul,
which the tricky catcher easily captured.

Merry ran out and asked the umpire if he had not seen McCann foul the
bat again, but the official shook his head and declared Frank out.

Merry came back and spoke to McCann.

“If you touch my bat again during the game,” he said in a low tone,
“I’ll have to hit you.”

“Go ahead!” blustered the ruffianly catcher. “I’d like ter have yer
try dat trick once more! I’d swat der packin’s outer yer in less dan
a jiffy!”

Merry longed to teach the fellow the lesson he deserved, but his
aversion for fighting prevented him from getting into further trouble
just then.

Rattleton was not encouraged by what happened to Merry, and he tunked
an easy one down to Robinson, who threw Harry out at first.

“W’y, we’re just beginnin’ ter play ball!” cried McCann.

Dick Merriwell stepped out from the bench, his light, strong bat over
his shoulder.

“Der kid will be pie, Bud!” cried Squinty.

“You didn’t find him pie yesterday,” said a voice from the bleachers,
and the few who knew about the encounter in front of the Continental
Hotel laughed heartily.

“I could lick dat babby ter-day,” thought Squinty. “I’d jest like ter
do der trick afore all dis crowd. Den I guess dey wouldn’t laugh at
me!”

He sat there, meditating on some manner of revenge. The more he
thought about it the greater became his belief that he could easily
whip Dick in another encounter.

Dick was fooled by the second one Nesbitt put over, and he missed
it easily. Then followed one that was just where the boy wanted it,
though it came with fearful speed.

The surprised spectators saw the lad strike at the ball with the
quickness of a veteran, the bat meeting the sphere fairly. It was
a pretty hit into left field, and Dick ran with the speed of a
frightened fawn.

“Take another!” was the cry that sent him flying over first and down
to second.

He saw the left-fielder get the ball and throw, and he heard Merry’s
clear cry:

“Slide!”

Forward shot the boy, and the manner in which he slid along the
ground to the base was beautiful to see. The baseman was a bit too
late to touch him out, and the umpire declared it safe.

“That’s Frank Merriwell’s brother!” cried a clear voice in the grand
stand. “What do you think of him?”

“He’s all right!” shouted hundreds.

“They’re both off the same web!” roared a man on the bleachers. “For
his years the youngster is the hottest stuff.”

“Merriwell,” said Jack Ready, “I see where your glory is about to be
eclipsed. Listen to the words of a prophet: That confounded kid is
going to become even more famous than his brother.”

“Good!” laughed Frank. “I am rather proud of him now. If he keeps on,
he’ll make a record for himself in baseball some day.”

Ready walked out to strike. Nesbitt was angry, for he felt that it
was a disgrace to have a boy like Dick make a two-bagger off him. He
fancied he had discovered Jack’s weak spot, and so he kept them in
close to Ready’s fingers.

Jack fouled two, and then he fell back far enough to hit the ball
fairly, sending it down between second and third.

The moment the ball was hit Dick Merriwell was in full leap for
third, and the way he covered ground astonished all witnesses. He
tore up the dust and raced over third without slackening speed in the
least.

The right-fielder got the ball and sent it home. Once more the
remarkable boy hurled himself forward and slid along the ground as if
his body was greased. That slide was something never forgotten by any
one who witnessed it, for it was made with perfect skill and grace.

The ball came into the hands of McCann, who dropped heavily on Dick’s
head with his knees.

“Safe!” said the umpire.

But when McCann arose the boy lifted from the ground a face that was
stained with blood.




                            CHAPTER XXIV.

                     THE ATHLETICS TAKE THE LEAD.


A roar arose from the crowd--a roar of anger at the outrageous action
of the ruffianly catcher. The witnesses saw Frank Merriwell leap out
from the bench and dart toward McCann, and it seemed that a thousand
voices shouted:

“Go for him!”

Frank needed no urging. He might have restrained himself under other
circumstances, but the sight of his brother’s bloody face had caused
him to cast aside all restraint.

McCann saw Merry coming and cast off the big catching-mitt, whirling
to face the furious brother of the youth he had injured.

Not a word escaped Merry’s lips, but he went straight at the ruffian.
McCann stepped forward to meet him, but Merry could no more be
stopped than could an avalanche under way. Frank found an opening in
the fellow’s guard and knocked him down instantly.

Up sprang the hard-headed bruiser, but he went down as quick as he
rose. Again McCann jumped up, and again he went down. Each time he
was knocked more than ten feet away, and Merriwell followed him up
closely.

As Merry struck the fellow the fourth time Squinty Jim endeavored
to get in and take part in the affray. He made a dive for Merry,
swinging a bat.

But a bloody-faced lad who had risen from the ground was on hand to
balk Squinty’s project, and the young thug received a jolt under the
ear that sent him spinning to one side.

Then the players of both sides rushed in and the fight was over.

The moment he realized everything that had happened Frank Merriwell
was very sorry.

“Before all these people!” he said. “It’s a shame! They came here to
witness a game of baseball, not a prize-fight. Where is Dick?”

“Here.”

Dick came up, wiping the blood from his face with his handkerchief.
One cheek was bruised and his chin was cut.

“Hurt bad?” asked Frank.

“Not very,” was the answer.

“I thought you must be. Your face looked bad when that big brute got
off your head.”

“He stunned me for a minute.”

“Methinks he hath been duly repaid,” chuckled Ready. “He looks like
a dish-rag about now.”

In truth, McCann was badly done up, and in no condition to catch
further during that game. He had found at last that he was no match
for Frank Merriwell.

So it was necessary to get yet another man into a suit before the
game could be continued.

Nick Robinson tried to excuse the action of McCann, but he could not
say much, and even his own players would not back him up.

Frank, however, became more and more regretful over what had happened.

“Never took part in any such disgraceful affair on a ball-field
before to-day,” he said. “I wonder what people will think.”

Ready had reached second, and Carson came up with great hopes of
sending him home.

The new catcher’s name was Corday. He was a tall fellow and a good
thrower. He gave a sample of his throwing when Ready played far off
second on a pitch. Down to the bag Corday lined the ball, and Jack
barely got back in time to escape being caught.

Carson managed to hit the ball all right, but the left-fielder
captured it, after a long run, and the first half of the inning was
over.

“Now, boys, we must shut them out and hold our lead,” said Merriwell.
“Everybody keep on his toes.”

McGlinkey was the first hitter, and he smashed the second ball
pitched, driving it along the ground past second base. This was a
good opening, and the rooters for the home team opened up earnestly.

Waldron sacrificed McGlinkey to second in very handsome style, and it
began to look like a possible score for the professionals.

Corday, however, was not a heavy hitter, and the best he could do was
to sacrifice the runner to third.

With two out, Webster came to the plate.

Hodge called for the double-shoot, but Merry shook his head. Bart was
puzzled, as Frank had ceased using that curve after the first inning.

Webster was crafty and did not try to kill the ball. Instead he hit
it just hard enough to drop it over the infield, and McGlinkey came
racing home with the score that tied.

Hodge was angry.

“What’s the use?” he muttered to himself: “Merry might have stopped
that score. Why won’t he use the double?”

“Hard luck, Merriwell,” grinned Robinson. “But you have done
very well for a youngster. You’ll make a good pitcher with more
experience.”

“Thank you!” said Frank, aroused by the words of the man.

Then he proceeded to strike out Robinson in short order, saying, as
Nick fanned the final time:

“Too bad, Mr. Robinson! You’ll make a batter some day, but you’ll
have to learn to hit those easy ones. Almost anybody ought to hit
those.”

“That’s right!” Robinson muttered, smiling sickly.

Again Frank sought to impart some of his energy to his players as
they came up to hit. Hodge started well with a hit, but Browning
flied to the infield. Gamp fouled out, and Bart remained on first.

“They can’t hit him safely!” said Hodge to Frank, who was coaching
near first.

“Of course not!” laughed Hayward, the baseman. “You’ve obtained more
hits off him now than you ought to have.”

“Why, we haven’t begun to hit him!” said Merry. “Wait till our streak
comes.”

“You need it pretty soon, for the game is getting along.”

“Lots of time. It’s not quite half-over.”

Nesbitt was well satisfied when he finally retired the Merries
without a man reaching second.

“Great pitching!” cried his admirers.

Again Merry went into the box and pitched steadily, although two
clean hits were made off him. He was able to prevent anybody from
scoring by his clever work.

In the sixth one of Merry’s men got around to third, but was left
there.

Waldron was the first hitter for the professionals, and he sent a
hot one at Ready, who failed to get it over in time to catch him at
first.

Then Corday came up and sacrificed Waldron to second.

Webster met the ball squarely and drove out a two-bagger that sent
Waldron home.

Once more the home team had taken the lead, but that did not satisfy
them, for Robinson sent out a long fly, on which, after it was
caught, Webster advanced to third.

Two men were out, but the professionals had a runner on third.

Again Bart called for the double-shoot. Again Frank shook his head.

Maloney was fierce to get in a rap, and Frank hoped to make him fan.
But the center-fielder of the Athletics managed to lift out a dinky
hit that let Webster come home with yet another run.

Frank resorted to speed now, and forced Flobert to fan twice. Then he
fooled the batter with one of Nesbitt’s own, which was a slow ball
that came up like a lump of dough. Flobert hit it, but knocked it
straight into the hands of Ready, who took pains to make his throw to
first good.

The score was four to two in favor of the professionals.




                             CHAPTER XXV.

                          DICK’S TRIPLE PLAY.


“I’d enjoy being kicked with a number fourteen boot!” said Jack
Ready, as he came in to the bench. “I was the cause of that bunch of
disaster. I should have handled that grounder in time to get the man.”

“Don’t cry over spilled milk,” advised Frank. “The game is still on.”

“Let us hope so. I want a chance to redeem myself.”

“We must do some hitting,” growled Browning. “It’s the only way to
win games.”

“If by hitting you mean slugging, it’s not the only way to win
games,” said Frank.

“Why, I’ve heard you say yourself that a heavy-hitting team will beat
a fast-fielding team in most cases.”

“I acknowledge that,” nodded Merry; “but in close games
sacrifice-hitting and good base-running count.”

“Our sacrifice-hitting hasn’t counted much to-day.”

“It has given us two runs.”

“They have four.”

“Obtained mostly by sacrificing.”

“Well, I’d like to see us jump onto that pitcher’s neck and hit him
out to beat the band.”

“So would I.”

“We can hit some.”

“When the streak is on.”

“Why not to-day?”

“We don’t seem to have a hitting streak, or this pitcher bothers us.”

“Anybody ought to hit him.”

“Still,” said Frank, “I fancy he is pretty good.”

Of a sudden, Ready uttered an exclamation.

“I know what ails us!” he palpitated.

“What is it?”

“Our mascot isn’t here!”

“Old Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Ask Dick.”

Dick was appealed to, and he explained that Crowfoot had not
felt like showing himself on the ball-ground, his experience in
Philadelphia having aroused in him a desire to keep out of public
view as much as possible.

“If we don’t have that old boy before the game is over it’s a gone
case with us!” asserted Ready. “We’ve got to have him! Carker, you
must hie yourself yonder and bring him hither.”

“He won’t come with me,” said Greg. “He doesn’t like me much.”

“You must bring him, if you have to do it with the aid of an
officer. Lose no time, Gregory. Stop not on the way to listen for the
rumble of the approaching earthquake. Grab Joseph by the collar and
lead him unto us.”

“Tell him I want him to come,” urged Dick. “That will bring him if
anything will.”

“Do you really wish me to go for him?”

“Sure thing, you sad-faced socialist,” said Ready. “Fly!”

“Give him this,” said Dick, passing to Greg a queer-looking stone.
“Tell him I sent it and asked that he come to me without delay.”

“Where is he?”

“He is pretty sure to be at the hotel.”

“Take a cab,” instructed Merry. “I’ll pay for it.”

While Frank did not take much stock in mascots, he felt that the
appearance of the old Indian might serve to arouse the players at
a time when it would be possible to win the game. So Greg hastened
away, leaving the ball-ground.

The game continued. The professionals had no trouble in holding their
lead up to the close of the eighth inning.

Frank’s team came to the bat in the beginning of the ninth with Ready
up as a starter.

“Here is where we must do it!” exclaimed Frank. “It takes two to tie
and three to win. Let’s get right into the game and make the runs.”

Jack felt his nerves quiver as he walked out to the plate, but he
refused to go after the first high one Nesbitt sent over.

Then the pitcher gave Ready a drop, which he failed to touch. The
third one looked good, and Jack hit it. It went bounding merrily down
the line toward first, and Hayward gathered it in, touching the bag.
One man was out.

“Only two more, Nes!” cried the players on the field.

“Where is Crowfoot?” groaned Ready, as he returned to the bench.

“Carker couldn’t find him, I presume,” said Browning.

Berlin Carson walked out to the plate, like a lamb to the sacrifice.

“Another victim!” cried the players.

Carson set his teeth.

“We’ll see!” he muttered, and then he smashed out a long drive, which
Webster dragged down.

Two men were out.

Rattleton began to pull on a sweater.

“Stop that!” ordered Frank sharply. “This game isn’t over. Sit still
until it is!”

“It’s just the same as over,” muttered Harry. “We’re beaten in good
shape.”

Hodge got up and advanced to the plate, his face looking drawn and
grim. Nesbitt laughed at him.

“Where will you have ’em?” he inquired. “Just name the place, and
I’ll put ’em right there.”

“Then put them over!” exclaimed Bart. “That’s all I ask.”

“Here you go!”

The pitcher gave Hodge a drop, and Bart fouled it. Then followed a
rise, which Hodge did not touch, and a strike was called.

“How easy, how easy!” cried the players.

Spectators were rising and preparing to leave the field. Nesbitt put
over another bender, and Bart missed that. It was the second strike.

At this moment a strangely thrilling sound pealed across the field.
It was a wild, weird cry, and all eyes were turned toward its source,
which proved to be an old Indian who had just come out through a
gate, accompanied by a youth in the uniform of Merriwell’s players.

Nesbitt had swung his arm to deliver the ball when that cry sounded.
He seemed to hesitate the least bit, and then he sent the sphere in.

Bart swung at it.

Crack!--the bat met the ball.

Again that wild cry pealed across the field, and down to first shot
Bart Hodge, while the fielders tried in vain to reach his safe hit.

“Ye gods!” cried Jack Ready. “Our luck has come! Did you see how the
wind changed?”

“I’m afraid it changed too late,” came from Rattleton.

But Frank saw in this fortunate hit a possible chance to win out, and
he hurried down to first, where he began coaching.

Browning came up to the plate, a flush in his cheeks. He turned to
look at Old Joe Crowfoot, and then mentally exclaimed:

“Hang me if I don’t believe he is good luck to us! I am going to hit
it!”

He did. He did not try to drive it far out, and for that very reason
he hit it handsomely, dropping it over the infield and enabling him
to reach first, while Bart took second.

The crowd began to shout, for this unexpected turn of affairs was
enough to awaken their dormant interest. Gamp stepped out, his teeth
set and his eyes flashing.

“It’s my tut-tut-tut-turn, by gum!” he said.

Nesbitt showed nervousness. His first one was over, and Joe sent
it skimming along the ground to the short-stop. It was too hot for
Robinson to handle cleanly, and the bags were filled.

Frank rushed down to the bench, speaking to Swiftwing, who stepped
out with a bat.

“Don’t hit at a ball,” commanded Merry. “Let him put them right over,
but don’t swing at one of them. He will give you a pass to first.”

Nesbitt looked at Merry, who returned that glance with interest, and
something seemed to unnerve the pitcher then and there.

Although he longed to strike at the ball, Swiftwing obeyed Frank.
Nesbitt tried to put the first one over, but it was a ball, and a
ball was called.

That made the pitcher more nervous than ever. He took the utmost
pains about the next one. It was a strike.

“Drive it out!” shouted the crowd.

Swiftwing looked at Frank, but Merry shook his head. Then, knowing
the batter would not strike, Nesbitt again took pains to put the ball
over.

“Two strikes!”

Once more Swiftwing looked appealingly at Frank, and once more Frank
shook his head. The next one was a ball, but still Nesbitt had plenty
of time.

However, he failed to get the following one over, and three balls
were called.

Swiftwing gathered himself, gripping the bat as if determined to hit
the next one when it came over.

Frank rose and spoke quickly in a low tone.

“I tell you not to strike!” he said. “If the ball comes right over,
let it pass.”

Nesbitt was resolved to put it over, and he took his time in making
the delivery. As soon as the ball was thrown, however, almost
everybody saw it was not good.

A roar that drowned the voice of the umpire went up. The umpire
motioned for Swiftwing to take his base, and thus a run was forced in.

Frank Merriwell was the next hitter. As he stepped up to the plate
he received an ovation that might have rattled the nerve of a more
excitable fellow.

“He’ll do it!” shouted many voices. “He’ll bring in the winning runs!”

Nesbitt was frightened at last, and he could not find the plate with
the first two pitched. Then he sent in a dead straight one that was
right over.

Frank did not swing hard, but with all the skill at his command he
placed the ball in right field.

That hit did the work, for Browning and Gamp came home, and the great
crowd rose up and yelled its delight.

Rattleton was nearly beside himself with joy, his feelings having
changed from deepest despair. He rushed out with his bat, unheeding
anything, and swiped away at the very first ball. He fouled it, and
the catcher got under it.

Three men were out, but the Merries had the lead.

“Our mascot did it!” cried Jack Ready. “He came just in time! Old Joe
shall have a new plug of tobacco to-night, or I’m a lobster!”

The game was not finished, however, for the heavy hitters of the
Athletics were next in order, and they had their batting togs on.
The first one was Webster, and he tapped out a little single.
Robinson followed with a scratch hit, and once more the excitement
was feverish.

No one was out. Maloney came out from the bench swinging his favorite
stick.

“Slug it, old boy!” cried somebody. “Merriwell’s arm is gone. You can
hit it a mile!”

Frank was cautious, but again shook his head when Bart called for the
double-shoot. He tried an out drop, but Maloney let it pass.

“One ball!”

Then Merry tried an in shoot.

“Two balls!”

Frank ventured to put one straight over the inside corner.

Maloney hit it hard, and the ball went whistling like a bullet
through the air.

Like a flash, Dick Merriwell leaped high from the ground and caught
it with both hands. It was an amazing catch, but what followed was
more surprising.

The moment the boy’s feet touched the ground again he sprang toward
second, which Rattleton had not covered.

The runner had started off second at the crack of the ball and bat,
while Robinson had raced down from first.

In vain the runner tried to stop and get back. The boy went past him
and tagged the bag, thus putting Webster out.

Astounded beyond expression, Robinson had stopped and turned about to
get back to first.

Instead of throwing the ball to first, the swift-footed lad ran
Robinson down the base-line and tagged him with the ball, thus
completing a triple play unassisted.

The score was 5 to 4 in favor of the Merries.




                            CHAPTER XXVI.

                     THE CHALLENGE OF MR. HAZARD.


“‘Mr. Jack Hazard,’” said Frank Merriwell, reading the name on the
card that had been brought him by the bell-boy.

“Another Jack?” exclaimed Jack Ready. “What, ho! Who is the gent,
Merry?”

“Ask me!” smiled Frank.

“From thy manner I should infer that thou art well acquainted with
him--not.”

“The inference would be correct.”

“Me curiosity is awakened. Prithee let him enter, and banish me not
from thy presence. He may be some bold bad man who is seeking to do
thee harm, in which case it behooves thee to have a faithful friend
at hand.”

“Say, Jack, let up on that kind of chatter! It becomes tiresome after
a while.”

Then Frank turned to the bell-boy and directed that Mr. Hazard be
brought up.

Merriwell and his friends had reached New York on their triumphal
baseball tour, and they were stopping at the Herald Square Hotel.

The arrival of Frank Merriwell had been noted by the newspapers,
several of which had contained lengthy interviews with him. In these
interviews Merry had stated that his ball-team would disband in New
York, as the end of the season was reached and they had no desire to
play longer. For himself, he declared that he had no intention of
becoming a professional ball-player, although he had received offers
from both the big leagues. The rumor that he would sign or had signed
with New York for the coming season was entirely groundless. He had
watched with great interest the manner in which New York had worked a
remarkable young college pitcher during the season just closing, and
had decided that it would take a man with an arm of iron to withstand
the strain and remain in form. Besides that, he had not the least
desire to become a professional, finding far more satisfaction and
pleasure in purely amateur sport.

The interviewers had not failed to ask questions concerning Dick
Merriwell, who had received no small amount of advertising. Dick was
spoken of as a “Boy Wonder,” with astonishing speed and bewildering
curves, who had shown himself capable of pitching against some of the
fastest teams in the country and winning his games with good support.
It was said that his jump ball fooled the surest batter, and that
it might in time become quite as well known as Frank Merriwell’s
double-shoot. The romantic story of Merriwell’s discovery of his
brother was also told.

As a result, large crowds of curiosity-seekers hung around the
hotel, seeking to catch a glimpse of Frank or Dick, not a little to
the annoyance of both.

“He’ll turn out to be another chap who wants to see you just a moment
for nothing in particular,” said Ready. “You should have demanded his
business.”

“Oh, I can stand another one,” smiled Merry. “Let him come.”

In a few moments there was a rap at the door, and Frank called, “Come
in.”

The door opened to admit a rather remarkable-appearing man, with the
face of a youth of twenty and the white hair of a man of sixty. He
was dressed in the very height of fashion and carried a cane. His
smooth cheeks were ruddy with the flush of health, and his blue eyes
were clear as an unclouded sky.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, advancing as Frank rose, “I beg your
pardon, sir; I knew you must be annoyed by the crowds hanging about.
I feared you might decline to see me.”

“Mr. Hazard?” questioned Frank pleasantly.

“That is my name.”

“If you had stated your business----”

“I did not for fear you would decline to see me.”

“Is it, then, so unpleasant?”

“Well, I hope not; but I saw by the papers that you intend to play no
more baseball this season, and that your team will disband here.”

“Which is correct.”

“As my business is connected with baseball, and I hope to induce you
to change your mind, I thought it best to meet you before making a
statement.”

Merry smiled again.

“I fear you are giving yourself too much trouble,” he said.

“At least, you will not decline to talk the matter over?”

“No; but I am tired of baseball. The first cool days of autumn
have given me a desire for sport of a different order, yet no less
exciting.”

“You mean----”

“Football.”

“Will you play this fall?”

“I cannot say, as I am out of college; but I shall be interested in
the sport, and I expect to do some coaching.”

“Would you mind saying where?”

“I have no objections. I have been invited to coach the team at
Fardale, where I once attended school. As I hope to enter my brother
there this fall, I shall accept the invitation.”

“Your brother--he is the youthful pitcher concerning whom the papers
had so much to say this morning. The story of your meeting with him
was most romantic.”

Now Merry frowned a bit.

“In many particulars the story was not quite accurate,” he declared.
“I saw the reporters were determined to tell some kind of a yarn
about it, and I gave them the bare facts. They were not satisfied,
and some of them resorted to imagination in their elaboration of the
particulars.”

Jack Ready had remained in the background, but now he stirred
slightly, upon which Merriwell at once introduced him to the visitor.

“Mr. Hazard,” said Jack, bowing profoundly. “I see you are delighted
to meet me. It is a great honor. You may tell your grandchildren
about it as they gather about your knees.”

Hazard regarded the queer fellow with a puzzled expression.

“This is our third-baseman,” said Frank. “He is a very entertaining
chap, both on the diamond and off.”

“Thanks, Merry,” chirped Ready. “So good of you to say it.”

“Occasionally,” Frank added, “he is taken for a fool, but I assure
you, Mr. Hazard, he is simply an idiot.”

“That’s all right,” said Jack; “but even my long suffering has a
limit. Don’t you dare call me a lunatic.”

“Is he dangerous?” smiled Hazard.

“Perfectly harmless,” assured Merry.

Hazard took a seat.

“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “you have been very successful in baseball
this season, but I think I know why.”

“That’s easy,” nodded Ready. “It’s because he is it.”

“I admit that Mr. Merriwell is a good pitcher, but you must have
encountered some good twirlers during your tour.”

“That’s right.”

“And you have defeated some of the fastest amateur and professional
teams in the whole country.”

“Correct.”

“Now, I think I know why. In every case you have been too swift for
the amateurs.”

“Thank you.”

“And the professionals have made the mistake of underrating you. They
have fancied they could defeat you without doing their level best,
and that has led them into the bad mistake of not playing from the
start in their best form. This has given you opportunities to win
your games before they awakened to the fact that it was necessary for
them to work hard.”

“Have you taken notice of the scoring of the games by innings?” asked
Merry.

“Not particular notice.”

“I thought not. If you had, you would have seen that we have won
almost every game in the final innings, those with the professionals
being no exceptions to those with the amateurs. By the time they
had played six or seven innings the most of these teams should have
discovered what they were up against.”

“Possibly so,” nodded the visitor, “but professionals generally
fancy they can win out against amateurs at any stage of the game.
I am satisfied that this has caused you to win more than one hard
game against professionals. They have neglected their opportunities.
Now, Mr. Merriwell, I am here to make you a proposition. I have a
baseball-team that I regard quite as fast as yours, or faster. It is
made up of college men mainly, with a few others--and none of the
others are professionals.

“I am confident that my team can defeat your team--so confident that
I challenge you to a game on the Polo Grounds to-morrow afternoon at
half-past three. I hope you will have the courage to accept after
defeating so many teams this season, as I am sure the game must draw
a large attendance here. New York is anxious to see you play, and the
fans will be out in force. I will see that it is advertised as your
final game for the season, and we will play on any terms you may see
fit to name, the winning team to take seventy-five per cent. of the
gate-money--or the whole of it. You cannot say this is not fair, and
I think you cannot afford to refuse.”

Merry was silent for some moments, looking straight at Mr. Hazard.

“What team is this you wish us to meet?” he finally asked.

“I call it The Mysteries.”

“Ah-ha!” cried Ready, with a flourish. “Refuse me! My rubber-neck
disposition is aroused.”

“How do we know this is on the level?” asked Frank.

“I am well known to the proprietor of this hotel and to a number of
men in the city who will assure you that my word is reliable. You
shall have such references as you desire. If I cannot satisfy you in
every particular, you need not play the game.”

“But how about the Polo Grounds?”

“There is nothing going on there to-morrow, unless we play, and I
have been assured that I may have the grounds.”

“Then you put yourself to the trouble of finding that out before
coming to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must have fancied there was some prospect that I would play with
you?”

“I did.”

“Why so?”

“Because you have the reputation of being ready for almost anything
in the way of honest, straightforward sport, and several of my team
assured me that there was not the least doubt but you would meet us
when you understood the matter fully.”

“You say there are a number of college men on your team who know me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I know them?”

“You do.”

“Who are they?”

Jack Hazard smiled in a mysterious manner.

“I had rather not state, Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “but I assure
you that there is a big surprise in store for you if you accept my
proposition. My men know you like a book, and they feel confident
that they can defeat your team.”

“Merriwell,” said Ready solemnly, “it behooves us to remove some of
their confidence. We must get against the festive Mysteries and bump
’em hard.”

“Then you will play the game?” questioned Hazard.

“If I find your references satisfactory,” said Frank, “we will play
the game to-morrow, which shall be our last game for the season.”

“Good!” laughed the visitor. “You’re beaten!”

“Nit!” chuckled Ready.




                           CHAPTER XXVII.

                          A HOMESICK BOY.


The sights of New York filled Dick Merriwell with wonder and awe.
Brought up in the peace and quietude of Pleasant Valley, under the
shadow of the snow-capped Rockies, the rush and roar of the great
city overwhelmed the boy at first. The tall buildings filled him with
fear, the rush and racket of the elevated trains shocked him, the
whiz of the clanging surface cars sent cold shivers over his body.

Although he did not confess it, he was seized by a great longing
to fly from the mighty city and return to his quiet home near Lake
Sunshine. The feeling smote upon his heart with a pain that took
away his strength and made him sick. He thought of Felicia far away,
and longed to look into her bright eyes again--longed to feel her
caressing arms flung about him.

But he had given up everything that once was his to go with Frank
and do what Frank desired, and he fought against the terrible
homesickness. No one seemed to read him like Old Joe Crowfoot, the
withered Indian, who loved him with the affection of a devoted animal.

If Old Joe sickened and longed for the mountains and plains, he kept
the fact concealed beneath a calm demeanor and a stoical countenance.
But he found the boy quite alone in the solitude of his room in
the hotel, and placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, saying with
surprising softness:

“Heap bad feel now--git over him bimeby. Old Joe him know. You wait.”

“Oh, Joe!” gasped the boy, starting and trembling. “I did not hear
you come in.”

“Injun Heart lose all Joe he teach um to know. Always must hear.
Never be ketched surprise.”

“But I was thinking, and I----”

“Better not think more of that. Heap bad. Forget.”

“You, Joe--you tell me to forget?” cried the boy, in amazement. “Why,
it was not long ago you tried to make me remember. You would not let
me forget. You told me of the sunlight playing on the bosom of the
lake I love--of the moonshine making a silver path across the water.
You told me of the birds, and squirrels, and wild things I used to
call round me. You told me of the silent mountains piled against the
sky. And then you told me of Felicia, Little Star Eyes, whom I heard
calling to me night after night in my dreams. It was you who aroused
my mad longing to go back to my home--and to Felicia!”

Gravely Old Joe squatted on the carpeted floor, taking out his black
pipe and beginning to fill it.

“Heap so,” he confessed.

“But now----”

“Heap diffrunt.”

“You want me to forget those things--you, you?” panted Dick, starting
up and staring at the cool redskin. “It’s not like you, Joe!”

“Ugh!” grunted the old fellow, as he stuffed the tobacco into the
bowl of the pipe. “No git excite’.”

“I can’t help it! This city lays on me like an awful load. It is more
terrible than anything of which I ever dreamed! Sometimes, when on
the street, I feel that I am being crowded and smothered, and I have
hard work to breathe.”

“Bad for you,” said Crowfoot, producing a match; “heap wuss for me.
You young; me old. I live heap long time where plent’ room. City
crowd big much.”

“Yet you make no murmur; offer no complaint!”

“What use? Joe him come with Injun Heart. Him know it be hard for
Injun Heart. Why him make it wuss?”

“Joe, Joe! you are so good! You think of me, not of yourself! And
still you tell me to forget Felicia and my dear home!”

Crowfoot gravely lighted his pipe, puffing forth big whiffs of smoke,
and then threw the burning match upon the carpet. Dick quickly picked
it up and tossed it in a cuspidor.

“Joe him your friend,” said the old fellow. “You know.”

“I have thought you my friend--I know, Joe. You have been my friend.
But you love the great West, where there is plenty of room. You feel
the awful crowding of the city.”

“Steady Hand him your broder.”

“Yes, but he is used to all this; I am not. With me it is different.
And what you told me is true, Joe--what you told me of the men of the
East. They are not big, and strong, and healthy; they dress in fine
clothes, wear high collars, and look weak. They are all striving to
become rich. That is all they think about. And it costs so much money
to live here!”

“Heap big lot,” nodded Joe.

“My brother wants to make me like them! I do not wish to live that
way.”

“Him different,” said Old Joe.

“Yes,” admitted Dick, “he does seem different in many ways, and
yet----”

“White man different from red man. Steady Hand him know what best for
Injun Heart.”

“How you have changed, Joe! Once you told me he would spoil me, but
now----”

“That when Joe him think Steady Hand not do right thing. Joe him
think odder way now. Steady Hand him no fool; him know what best for
Injun Heart. You do what him say. Joe hate him once. Think him take
Injun Heart away.”

“But now Frank has won even you for a friend, and there was a time
when you longed to kill him! He seems to have a way of making friends
of everybody.”

The old Indian nodded gravely, continuing to puff at his pipe.

“Right,” he admitted. “Joe he know it. He know it all the time. Him
see how ev’rybody think Steady Hand be heap smart.”

“And you advise me to do as he wishes me to?”

“That so.”

“But Felicia--am I to see her no more?” cried the boy, in a
heart-broken way.

“Some time.”

“When?”

“Soon mebbe.”

“How can I? I am not to go to her.”

“Mebbe she come.”

“No, no! I shall never see her any more! And Frank says I am to begin
going to school very soon.”

“Make you like him, heap good school.”

More than ever was the boy amazed.

“Why, you told me many times that no school was good! You have
changed, Joe.”

“Mebbe some. I know Steady Hand now much better. Good school make man
like him.”

“And you think it will do me good to go to school there?”

“Guess so some.”

Dick made a despairing gesture.

“Then I’ll have to go!” he said dejectedly. “I’ll have to do it, even
if it kills me!”

“No kill; make man. Mebbe you not be like Old Joe thought you be some
time; you be like Steady Hand, that much good.”

“When you say that I know what it means. I shall do it, Joe. But you
will stay near, won’t you? Promise that you will.”

“Stay long as can stand him. Steady Hand say Joe can stay. Bimeby Joe
him git much sick for mountains and prairies. Then him go ’way.”

“And never come back?” cried Dick.

“Mebbe so some time.”

“Oh, you never will! If you go away, Joe, I’ll never see you again!”

“Not gone yit.”

“But you said you might.”

“Wait. Trouble him come soon if not hurry um. Joe him go with you to
place where school be. Him want to see um place.”

“But if I do not wish to stay there, Joe--what if it makes me sick
and I want to get away?”

“Then mebbe we do somethin’.”

“You will help me run away, Joe?” panted the lad.

The old redskin smoked in silence for some moments, finally answering:

“No.”

“You won’t? Why not?”

“Promise Steady Hand.”

“But it is for me, Joe--for me!”

“Joe him give Steady Hand promise; never break it. Steady Hand him
say Joe may go with you, but him must never git you run away. Joe him
promise.”

“It’s no use!” Dick murmured. “I see that I’ll have to do as he
wishes me to. I must give up! Oh, I wish he had never found me!
Sometimes I think I hate him!”

“Bad mistake. Injun Heart no hate Steady Hand. He ready to fight for
Steady Hand. Only think him hate some time. Somebody hurt Steady
Hand, him fight heap much.”

Deep down in his heart Dick Merriwell knew this was true. Still, the
homesickness that had seized him would not depart, and not even the
words of Old Joe could banish it.




                           CHAPTER XXVIII.

                           BEFORE THE GAME.


Mr. Jack Hazard proved an adept advertiser. The morning papers on the
following day were “worked” scientifically for space, and a number of
them told how Merriwell’s team had been challenged by the manager of
another team made up mainly of fast college men, many of them knowing
Merriwell well and being able to bat him hard. Still, in relation to
the challenging team an air of mystery was maintained, and the name
of not one player was mentioned.

Merriwell and his team reached the Polo Grounds early and entered
their dressing-room, where they proceeded to change their street
attire for baseball uniforms, taking their time about doing so.

“This is the first time in baseball,” said Merry, “that I ever went
up against a team I knew absolutely nothing about. It’s a very
remarkable affair, to say the least.”

“It has piqued my curiosity till I feel decidedly peaked,” put in
Ready. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find out we were up against
a lot of old leaguers.”

“Perhaps it is the New York team,” rumbled Browning.

“There are lots of college men on the New Yorks!” laughed Frank.

“One, anyhow,” said Carson.

“And they have nearly witched his ping off--I mean pitched his wing
off,” from Rattleton.

“It is not the Giants,” decided Merry. “But it’s a hot team, and I’ll
bet almost anything on it. I understand there is betting on the game.
Somebody must know the kind of a bunch we’re up against, else there’d
be no taking chances.”

“I understand,” said Carson, “that the odds are against us.”

“Who is flashing all the boodle?” inquired Ready. “If I can find
the sports, I may venture a mere bagatelle of eight or ten thousand
dollars.”

“Gambling is a vicious thing,” declared Greg Carker. “It is the cause
of no end of poverty and suffering. The rich man gambles, and the
poor man follows his example. Thus the rich man pushes the poor man
still lower. It is the duty of all who have at heart the welfare of
their fellow creatures to frown on the vice.”

“Lecture by G. Carker, promoter of earthquakes!” chirped Ready.
“Unplug your ears and listen.”

“How is your arm, Merry?” asked Hodge, in a low tone.

“Rather poor,” confessed Frank. “I’ve never recovered from that
sprained wrist.”

“But you can pitch to-day?”

“If absolutely necessary. We’ll find out first what sort of a
gathering we are to encounter.”

“You must pitch! It’ll never do to run Dick against a powerful
Eastern team.”

“There are just as fast teams in the West.”

“Perhaps, but there is something the matter with Dick. Haven’t you
noticed it?”

“He’s a trifle rattled by New York.”

“It’s worse than that.”

“Worse? How?”

“I believe he is homesick.”

“Perhaps so; but he’ll get over that. Wait till the game starts and
he gets into it. He’ll forget everything but baseball.”

Still Bart urged Frank to go into the box. Hodge had the utmost
confidence in Merry, even though Frank’s wrist was lame.

The time came for them to go out onto the field. Old Joe had been
silently smoking in the dressing-room, but, at the last moment before
going out, he spoke to Dick.

“Play heap smart to-day,” he said. “Show what um can do. You give um
big s’prise.”

“I do not feel like playing baseball,” confessed the boy. “I cannot
forget Pleasant Valley and home.”

“Great warrior him forgit ev’rything. You got Injun heart. No forget
it.”

Then he touched the boy in a queer way with his hand, and Dick
straightened up, saying:

“I’ll not forget it, Joe. I’ll try not to make you ashamed of me, see
if I don’t.”

“Much good!” grunted Crowfoot.

“You are to sit on the bench with us,” said Dick. “Frank said you
were.”

“Joe him be there.”

“When I feel like quitting I shall look to you. I shall think of the
things you have taught me. That will make me play.”

“Injun Heart do that same as if him life be on game and him make um
much wonder.”

“I will! I will!”

“Are you ready, fellows?” called the voice of Merriwell.

“All ready.”

“Then we’ll go out. Come on.”

They followed him, and soon discovered that a great throng of people
had gathered on the bleachers and in the grand stand, while a steady
stream was coming through the gate.

As Merry’s team appeared a shout went up.

“There they are!”

“There’s Merriwell!”

“Hooray for Frank Merriwell!”

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!”

Round the field ran the cheering. It was a surprising reception for
Merriwell to receive there in New York, and he afterward confessed
that it “bumped” him.

But when the general shouting had ceased there came another sound
from the bleachers on the right of the field. It was the Yale cheer,
ending with Merriwell’s name, and it was shouted through more than a
hundred megaphones in perfect chorus.

Frank looked, and there, gathered in a body, were a great throng of
Yale men. Where they had come from he could not understand, but they
were there, and they cheered for the hero of Old Eli, led by several
men, who wildly flourished their arms.

But what surprised Frank more than aught else was the fact that in
the midst of these men were two girls, dressed in white, wearing the
Yale blue and flaunting Yale banners.

At sight of them Frank almost staggered. Then he stood quite still
and stared hard.

“Good Lord!” he gasped. “Can it be?”

He found it difficult to believe the evidence of his eyes, but a
moment later he joyously muttered:

“Inza and Elsie! They are here together!”

He grasped Bart and turned him toward the group, saying hoarsely:

“Look there, Hodge! It will do your eyes good!”

Bart saw them, and his dark face flushed, while his eyes gleamed with
untold pleasure.

“Elsie!” he breathed. “At last!”

“Talk about surprises!” said Merry. “Isn’t this one?”

“Rather!” Hodge admitted, waving his hand to the girls.

They waved back, both of them almost beside themselves with delight.

“Where are our antagonists?” inquired Jack Ready, looking around.

“They will be ready to practise directly,” said the smooth voice of
Mr. Hazard, as that individual appeared. “You may take the field
first, gentlemen.”

“Let’s get out, fellows,” said Frank, recovering himself.

At a signal Merry’s team trotted onto the field for practise. Dick
Merriwell went out at short, which made it apparent that Frank
intended to pitch.

The practise of the team was sharp and snappy from the very first,
and it brought frequent bursts of applause from the witnesses.

Old Joe Crowfoot was on the bench, still pulling at his pipe, after
his usual calm manner.

Dick quickly entered into the work, and his cleverness in handling
everything that came his way showed that he was pretty fast, in spite
of his years.

After nearly fifteen minutes of practise Frank called his team
in. Barely had the men walked in to the bench, when out from the
dressing-room came the other team. They were dressed in yellow
uniforms, and they trotted straight out onto the field.

Then from the Yale crowd came another cheer. Frank Merriwell was,
indeed, surprised.

“What’s this?” he gasped. “What have they sprung on us? Will you look
at that crowd?”

“I will,” nodded Jack Ready. “But I’m nearly knocked stiff with the
blow. There’s Gene Skelding on third!”

“And Starbright on first!” from Hodge.

“Mason at short!” rumbled Browning.

“Oliver Packard on second!” ejaculated Carson.

“Dud-dud-Dismal Jones in left field!” stammered Gamp.

“Hans Dunnerwurst in right!” said Frank.

“Barney Mulloy catching!” gasped Rattleton.

“Ephrum Gug-gug-gug-Gallup out in center!” said Gamp.

“And Dade Morgan for a pitcher!” muttered Hodge.

The Mysteries were made up of Frank Merriwell’s former comrades and
college friends.

When he had recovered from his astonishment Merry began to laugh.

“This is a fine old joke!” he said. “It’s a put-up job! Now I begin
to understand the meaning of that collection of Yale fans. This thing
was cut and dried in advance. Well, there will be warm doings around
here to-day.”

“And we propose to do your team, Mr. Merriwell,” said Jack Hazard,
who had approached Frank. “These fellows know you, and they say you
will be easy, as your team is not nearly as strong as ours.”

This caused Frank to laugh again.

“It’s a good thing to have plenty of confidence,” he observed, “but
I think I’ll take a turn at surprising somebody.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you wait a while you will find out.”

The practise of the Mysteries was quite as sharp and snappy as that
of Merriwell’s team had been, setting the crowd to speculating once
more.

Morgan began to warm up to pitch, but Frank tossed a ball to Dick,
saying:

“Loosen up your wing a trifle, Richard, while I flip with Mr. Hazard
to see who starts the game.”

They drew aside, and Hazard spun a coin, which twinkled in the
afternoon sunshine when it fell to the ground.

“Heads!” Merry had said.

“Heads it is,” said Hazard. “Your choice.”

“We’ll take our outs.”

“Good! We’ll fall on you in the first inning hard enough to give you
some worriment.”

Dick was throwing to Hodge, and Merry passed him on his way to speak
to Mulloy and Morgan.

“Frankie, it’s a soight fer sore oies to see yez!” exclaimed Barney,
who had grown stocky and muscular. “Oi’m glad to grasp yer fin again,
me bhoy.”

Merry shook hands with Barney.

“I am glad to see you,” he declared. “How did you fellows patch up
this piece of business?”

The Irish youth grinned and winked.

“It’s watchin’ yez we’ve been,” he confessed; “an’ we loaded a gun
fur yez whin ye got this way. Oi hate t’ do it, Frankie, but we’ll
have t’ beat yez this day.”

“Don’t lose any sleep over that,” returned Merry.

He met Morgan, extending his hand.

“Dade, I presume you’re going to pitch against us?” he said.

“I believe so,” said Morgan, with that sweet smile, his eyelids
drooping. “But it’s to be clean sport.”

“I should hope so, with these teams playing. Still, I can understand
that it will be for blood.”

“Of course.”

After the regular practise, the Mysteries came in from the field.
Some little time was spent in handshaking, while the great bunch of
Yale men on the bleachers sang, “Here’s to Good Old Yale.”

Hans Dunnerwurst toddled up to Merry, extending his pudgy hand, as he
cried:

“How you vos, ain’d id? You vos glatness to seen me, I pelief. Yaw!
I’d peen a regular surprising barty. Yaw!”

“And you still have the idea that you can play ball?” said Merry.
“Why, Hans, you know better!”

“Vait!” squawked the Dutch lad. “Vait till I show you vot I can dood!
You vill peen so surbrised dot your eyes vill sdick oudt uf mine
headt.”

“You always did have a barrel of luck,” said Merry, “but luck will
not win this game.”

“The Lord be with us!” droned Dismal Jones, his face as long as ever.
“How are you, Merriwell?”

“Gol-darn my squash!” cried Ephraim Gallup, as he came straddling up.
“I’m glad I’m not to hum on the farm, b’gosh!”

Starbright was on hand to grasp Merry’s hand in both his own broad
palms, his blue eyes beaming. Mason came round quietly, and Oliver
Packard made no demonstration.

“Play ball!” called the voice of the umpire.

Out onto the field trotted Merriwell’s team.

And, to the astonishment of everybody, Frank Merriwell did not go
into the pitcher’s box.

He sent Dick in!




                            CHAPTER XXIX.

                          HITTING ’EM SOME.


“Pwhat’s this?” cried Barney Mulloy, in amazement. “It’s a choild ye
put agin’ us? It’s no joke, ye’ll foind it.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” laughed Frank. “When you’ve batted him
out of the box, I’ll hand you up a few twisters.”

“Thin ye’ll have a chance roight away,” returned the Irish youth
confidently.

There was a hush after the cheering, and the game was about to begin.

“Battery for the Merries, Merriwell and Hodge,” announced the umpire.

There was a volley of applause, and Dick Merriwell toed the slab. He
looked slender and out of place there, his face pale and his dark
eyes gleaming, while there was a set expression about his somewhat
wilful mouth. Up among the clustered Yale men there was a buzz of
comment.

“It’s a shame to drive such a gentle lamb to the slaughter!” said one.

“That’s what it is,” agreed another. “Why, that boy can’t hold down
Morgan’s team!”

“Merriwell must be daffy to put his brother into such a position,”
asserted a third. “Can it be that he is afraid to face Morgan’s men?”

“No!” exclaimed Inza Burrage at once. “Anybody here knows better
than that. When was Frank Merriwell ever afraid of anything? Dick
Merriwell is his brother, and he will win this game.”

On the edge of the gathered Yale men a man arose and said:

“If there are any betting men present, I’ll chance a few dollars that
the boy does not remain in the box four innings.”

“Bow-wow-wow!” barked a huge St. Bernard dog at the side of the
speaker.

“Correct, Nero!” cried the man approvingly. “You agree with me, I
see. That settles it. The boy will be batted out within four innings.
I’ll bet five, ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred on it.”

“Why doesn’t somebody take him?” breathed Inza, her cheeks flushed.
“Frank Merriwell knows what he is about, and he would not put his
brother into the box to be batted out in four innings. If I were a
man, I’d bet just as much as that gentleman wants to wager!”

Those words seemed to arouse some of the Yale crowd, and there was a
low buzzing of voices.

“She’s right,” said more than one. “Merriwell knows what he is
about. The kid will stay in more than four innings. Let’s call the
gentleman with the long green.”

Whereupon there was a hasty plunging into pockets, and the students
quickly formed a pool, handing their money over in fives and tens to
one of their number.

“Come, come!” cried the man with the dog; “will no one take me? Then
I’ll make it three innings. The boy will not be in the box for Yale
at the end of the first half of the third inning. Here is a cool
hundred that says so.”

A Yale man pushed his way through, saying:

“I think I’ll have to cover your century, sir. Will you be good
enough to nominate the stakeholder?”

“You?” sneered the man with the dog, looking at the beardless
student. “Why, when did you ever see a hundred?”

“If you’ll put your money up, I’ll guarantee to cover it.”

“Then let’s make it something worth while!” exclaimed the fellow, who
had heavy black eyebrows and a deeply lined face. “A hundred is too
small. Let’s make it two hundred.”

Now it happened that the Yale men had placed very nearly two hundred
dollars in the hands of the man deputized to place the bet, and he at
once said:

“That is quite satisfactory to me.”

“What?” cried the man.

“Put up your money,” said the Yale man quietly, “or close up your
countenance. Here is a gentleman who will hold the stakes. It is
Robert Harding, of New Haven, known to everybody. You cannot object
to him as a stakeholder.”

The man with the dog hesitated, frowning blackly. The dog barked
again.

“All right, Nero,” said the fellow. “It seems a shame to rob this
tender young lamb of his boodle, but he wants to give it away, and I
need it. Mr. Harding, here is my money.”

“Ah-ha!” cried the man with the dog. “A fine job? See them bump the
kid now!”

Just then Dick Merriwell sent the first ball over, and it seemed slow
enough for the batter to hit it easily. Packard missed it clean,
however, and Jack Ready cried:

“Why, it’s just as easy, Richard! You’ll keep that lad swatting the
ozone all day, my boy.”

“Give him another, Dick,” urged Carson from right field.

“That’s pitching ’em some,” rumbled Browning.

“He has hu-hu-hu-holes in his bat!” came from Gamp. “Don’t be afraid
of him.”

“Put ’em right over,” urged Frank.

Nearly the whole team was talking to Dick, and the boy needed it, for
he felt himself quivering all over. In vain he had tried to fling
aside that shaking feeling, but it clung to him most persistently.
Somehow, his heart was not in the game, and he felt that he was
going to be batted hard.

The next ball was wild, and the umpire called a ball. Then Dick tried
a high one, which Packard let pass.

“You’ll have to get it down, me bhoy,” said Barney Mulloy.

Dick sent in a swift in shoot, and Packard fanned again.

“That is doing pretty well!” roared the Yale crowd, while Inza
Burrage clapped her hands.

“Let him hit it!” urged Frank. “He won’t do any damage.”

“Put it right over the pan,” came from Ready.

“Ram it over the slubber--I mean slam it over the rubber!” Rattleton
cried.

“Yes, put it over,” muttered Packard.

Dick did not intend to put the next one right over, but he made a
miscalculation and did so.

Packard hit it, driving out a clean single between first and second.

“I knew it!” shouted the man with the dog.

“Bow-wow!” barked the dog.

Something seemed to smite Dick’s heart like a blow. A haze rose
before his eyes, across which he brushed his hand. He thought of the
peace and quietude of Pleasant Valley, far away, with the mighty
mountains heaped against the sky, and he longed for the sound of the
wind through the trees and the gentle murmur of Felicia’s voice. With
this feeling upon him, he was tempted to walk off the diamond and
refuse to pitch another ball.

That was not all, for something within him seemed crying:

“I hate baseball--I hate it!”

The ball was thrown in to him, but he did not see it, and it bounded
past.

Fortunately Hodge was watching and got the ball at once, preventing
Packard from taking second on the throw.

“All right, Dick,” said Bart, as he tossed the ball to the boy.
“Don’t let that jar you. They can’t do a thing with you.”

Bart had confidence in the lad, built of observation. At first he
had fancied it folly when Frank wished to pitch Dick in an important
game, but the work of the clever youngster had gradually won Hodge.
Still, Bart considered Frank far superior to any pitcher, and it was
Merry he wished to see in the box.

Dick took the ball and stood facing Mason, the next batter. These
fellows were Frank’s college mates and friends, and something told
Dick that they could bat against him with confidence.

“What’s the use to play ball?” flashed through the brain of the boy.
“If I couldn’t play at all would Frank care so much about me?”

“Make him pitch, make him pitch!” cried Morgan.

“The batter is ready,” said the umpire.

Still Dick stood there like one dazed.

“One ball!” exclaimed the umpire, making the decision as a penalty
for the delay.

“All right, Dick--all right,” said the calm voice of Frank. “Don’t
mind anything. Drop one over the rubber.”

The word “drop” was a signal, giving Dick the cue that Mason could
not hit a drop ball very well. The boy started, looked at Hodge,
nodded, and swung his arm.

Packard had obtained a good lead off first, and he scooted for second.

Bart gathered himself, and Mason swung his bat to bother the catcher,
Hodge, however, was not at all disturbed by the bat, and he sent the
ball down with a snapping short-arm throw.

“Slide!” shrieked the coacher.

Packard slid, Rattleton took the ball, and put it onto him hard.

“Out!” cried the umpire.

The crowd shouted.

“You should know better than to try that with Hodge behind the plate,
Packard!” yelled a Yale man. “Haven’t you seen him throw enough to
find out you can’t steal on him?”

Packard walked off with his head down. He had fancied his lead off
first was enough to let him down to second safely.

One strike had been called on Mason.

Frank saw that Dick was unsteady, but he fancied the putting out of
Packard might brace him up. This did not seem to be the result, for
the boy put the next one straight over and Mason smashed it hard.

Gamp made a great run for it but could not get under the ball. Mason
went over first at his best speed and turned for second, being told
to go along by the coacher.

Gamp got the ball and lined it in to second, but Hock was there
safely, having made a clean two-bagger.

“Well, what do you think about it now?” cried the sporting man with
the dog. “Everybody hits him hard! He won’t last an inning!”

Starbright stepped out to the plate.

“High and close, Dick,” said Frank, in a low tone, having run in till
he was near his brother.

Starbright’s weak point was a high in shoot, which was known very
well to Frank.

Dick nodded in a mechanical manner, and then proceeded to send over
one that was just waist-high.

Starbright smashed it. The ball went straight at Rattleton with
fearful velocity. Harry stood up to it, but it struck in his hands
and dropped out.

A shout went up.

Harry, however, recovered quickly, got the ball, and threw to
Browning, who held it just in time.

“Out at first!” cried the umpire.

“Dead lucky!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “If it had gone through
him, then the chap on second would have scored. Oh, they will pound
that kid to death!”

“I hope they won’t!” breathed Elsie, “but I’m afraid they will.”

“I’m not!” came from Inza. “Frank knows what to do, and his brother
must be all right, else he wouldn’t let him pitch.”

“But see how hard they have hit.”

“They haven’t scored yet.”

Mulloy was the next hitter, and Merriwell knew he was a bad man for
any pitcher to face, therefore he called to Dick and gave a sign for
an out drop, as that was Barney’s one weak point.

The heart of the boy had jumped into his throat when Starbright hit
the ball, but it fell back, and a feeling of relief came over him as
Rattleton saved himself on the play. Dick nodded to Frank, but shook
his head when Bart called for an in shoot. Hodge changed the sign and
Dick nodded.

The boy started the ball straight at Barney, who drew back a little
and then swung poorly, as he saw it was an out curve, succeeding in
fouling the ball.

“One strike,” said the umpire, as they were playing under National
League rules.

“That’s the stuff, Richard!” chirped Ready. “You’ve got him down pat.”

“Pat is not me name,” said Barney.

“It’s going to be Dennis in a minute,” chuckled Ready.

The next ball was high, and Barney came near going after it, but held
back just in time.

Another out drop was tried. This time, however, Mulloy saw it must
curve beyond the plate and refrained from swinging.

The second ball was called. Dick tried one on the inside corner, but
the umpire refused to give it.

“Now he must put it over!” shouted Packard, who was coaching.

Dick grew nervous, and failed to find the plate, which gave the Irish
youth a pass to first.

Gallup strode out to the plate, a grin on his homely face.

“Gosh-darn if I ain’t glad I left the farm!” he said. “Put the ball
over the old dishpan an’ I’ll wallop it.”

Dick looked toward Merry, but, knowing Gallup had no real weak point,
Frank hesitated. Then he gave a sign for the boy to use the jump ball.

Dick’s delivery was short and sharp, and he sent the next one in with
great speed. Gallup fancied it was coming about shoulder-high, which
led him to swing to meet it.

The ball took an awful jump, such as not even Hodge was prepared for,
struck the end of Bart’s mitt, and went past.

The runners merrily moved up a bag each.

Hodge was angry with himself, for he realized this was not Dick’s
fault.

Again the boy grew nervous, for now there were two coachers jabbering
away, and a hit meant a score--perhaps two.

With great deliberation Dick put the ball straight over the plate,
whereupon Gallup drove it hard and far into right field.

The coachers sent both runners, seeing at a glance that Carson had
little show of getting the drive before it struck the ground.

Berlin picked it up clean on the bound and threw to second, stopping
Gallup from going down, but both Mason and Mulloy came home, giving
the Mysteries two runs.

“Don’t mind that, Dick,” said Frank, seeing that there was a strained
look on the face of his brother. “Two scores can’t win this game.
We’ll hold ’em now.”

The man with the big dog laughed his satisfaction.

“Take the boy out!” cried several voices. “Take him out! Take him
out! Give us a pitcher! What did we pay our money for?”

Such cries might have dispirited a less determined lad, but not so
Dick Merriwell. There was something in the sound that caused the
lad’s teeth to clench like a vise, while his eyes glittered with an
inward fire and he stiffened up. Not a word did he say, but into his
heart leaped a sudden mad resolve to show them what he could do.
Opposition and ridicule did not unman him; instead, it put him on his
mettle.

Dismal Jones walked out with his club, sadly saying:

“It’s too bad! I hate to do it.”

Dick began with the jump ball, and Hodge took care to get up for it.
Jones struck at least a foot under the first one.

Bart called for a drop, but Dick shook his head and gave the batter
another exactly like the first.

Again the ball rose above Jones’ bat, and the second strike was
called.

“That’s pitching, Dick!” came the encouraging voice of Frank. “You
can keep it up.”

Now Dick had decided to use a drop next time, but the word “up” from
Frank was a signal for him to continue with the high ball, which he
did.

The third jump fooled Dismal just as the others had, and he fanned
out, the sphere plunking into Bart’s big mitt and remaining there.

The third man was out.




                             CHAPTER XXX.

                      DICK SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.


The Yale men gave a cheer, ending with the name of Dick Merriwell,
while Elsie and Inza flaunted their flags.

“An accident,” sneered the man with the dog. “It won’t happen again.”

Dick looked angry as he came walking in to the bench, where Old Joe
calmly smoked away.

“A little hard luck, that’s all,” said Hodge. “Don’t mind it, Dick.”

“No hard luck about it!” flashed Dick. “It was my wretched work that
gave them their runs!”

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Um ball-players hit Injun Heart heap
cracko. No let um do so some more.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Dick.

“Don’t worry over it a bit,” smiled Frank. “I’ve been hit lots harder
than that in my day, and won my game, too. There’s nothing serious
about it yet.”

But Dick was wholly displeased with himself, and he showed it in his
angry manner.

Ready chose a bat and ambled out to the plate, chirping:

“It’s your funeral now, Morgan. Oh, Dadie, my boy, we won’t do a
single thing to you!”

Dade smiled in his sweetest manner. He was a handsome fellow, and he
made a graceful appearance in his suit. He looked around to make sure
every man was in position.

Then Morgan broke loose and sent over a ball that whistled through
the air. His speed was something surprising, even to those who knew
him well.

“Strike!” called the umpire, although Jack had not swung.

“La! la! what steam!” Ready exclaimed. “You must have gunpowder in
your wing, Dadie!”

Morgan’s next one was a beautiful in shoot, and, thinking it another
straight, swift one, Ready fanned.

“Two strikes!”

“There is a pitcher for you!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “He’ll
make that Merriwell aggregation look like twenty-nine cents.”

“How the wind blows!” came from Ready. “That nearly trimmed my
whiskers.”

Morgan used the same delivery on the next ball, but it proved to be
a sharp drop, and Ready did not come within a foot of it.

“Batter is out!” rang the clear voice of the umpire.

The general crowd shouted with satisfaction.

“Dade,” said Ready, “you’re a lucky dog. I had decided to make a
home run at the very start, but I changed my mind. That’s what saved
you.”

Again Morgan smiled. He knew Carson well, and he started with a high
in shoot, at which Berlin fanned. Then followed a high one, which
pulled the youth from Colorado, and the second strike was called.

Having this advantage, Morgan deliberately wasted two balls.

Carson waited for a good one, which he fancied he had finally found.
He hit the ball hard on the ground, and it went straight at Mason.
Just as it reached Hock it took a bad bound, and Mason did not get
his hands on it fairly.

Carson was sprinting to first with all the speed he could muster,
which led Mason to snatch up the ball and throw quicker than he had
intended.

The throw was high for even tall Dick Starbright to reach, and Berlin
continued on to second, which he safely reached.

“Well, well, well!” cried Ready, as he capered down toward third.
“You’ll have to get a step-ladder, Starbright, old boy. The gentleman
from South Carolina is wilder than mountain scenery.”

“Don’t mind that, Hock,” said Morgan, who was captain of the team.
“Get it down next time.”

Mason took such things hard, and Morgan knew it would not do to “jump
on him.”

Hodge walked out, his lips pressed together. Morgan realized that he
was facing one of the hardest batters on Merriwell’s team, and he at
once resorted to all the strategy he could command.

Hodge was anxious to hit, but he waited till two balls were called.
Then Dade put over a high straight one, and Hodge smashed it.

The ball went along the ground to Packard, who got in front of it and
gathered it up. It was too late to stop Carson from reaching third,
but Oliver easily threw Hodge out at first.

“Now a Texas leaguer!” cried Ready, as Browning came up. “Move the
outfielders back.”

Browning longed to smash the ball, but, to his dismay, Merriwell gave
him the sign to bunt. Carson saw the sign also and knew what to do.

The first ball was shoulder-high, and high balls are hard to bunt
successfully, so Bruce let it pass.

“Strike one!” said the umpire.

Carson had played down on the pitch, but he went back to third in a
lively manner.

The next ball was too wide, and the umpire called it a ball. Then
came one that suited Bruce, who did his best to drop it inside the
line toward third.

To Browning’s astonishment, the bunt was almost perfect. Bruce did
not start quickly, however, and Morgan came in for the ball like a
leaping panther.

Carson tore down the line to the plate, and Dade realized that the
only way to stop the score was to throw Browning out at first.

Morgan gathered the ball and threw hastily. It happened that Browning
was between Dade and Starbright, so that Morgan did not make a good
throw. Starbright stopped the ball with his big mitt, but it dropped
to the ground, and he could not get it up before Browning went over
the sack.

A cheer went up from the Yale men on the bleachers.

“Well, that’s hard luck!” exclaimed the fellow with the dog. “They
got that run without making a hit off Morgan.”

This was true.

The smile had vanished from Dade’s face as he returned to the
pitcher’s position. Gamp was up, and Morgan again burned the ball
over with great speed. He was seeking to strike Gamp out, and he
failed to hold Browning close to first, thinking Bruce too slow and
lazy to steal.

But, when thoroughly awakened, Browning was anything but slow. He
started for second on the second ball pitched, and seemed to gather
momentum with every stride.

Mulloy lined the ball down, the throw being a trifle high. However,
it seemed that Packard would get it in time. Browning slid feet first
for the bag.

Packard was not anxious to get in the way of the big fellow’s
spikes, and he failed to get the ball onto Bruce quite soon enough.

“Safe!” said the umpire.

“Rotten!” cried the man with the dog. “He was out! Shoot the umpire!”

“Oh-h-h, go choke yourself!” cried several of the Yale men.

One strike and one ball had been called. Dade gave Gamp a drop, and
Joe met it. The ball sailed away into deep center, while Browning
sprinted to bring in the score that would tie.

Ephraim Gallup made his long legs fly in his run to get under the
ball. It did not seem that he could reach it by many feet, but he
hurled himself forward in a last furious effort, and got his hands on
it. Then he went whirling end over end and held fast to the ball till
he could rise and hold it up.

“Out!” was the decision of the umpire.

“Ah-h-h!” shouted the man with the dog. “Even that wasn’t a hit! Now
they’ll get after the boy!”

The crowd applauded Gallup’s remarkable catch, even Inza Burrage
being led to clap her hands, although she declared she was sorry he
held the ball.

“Don’t know when I’ve worked as hard as that before,” grumbled
Browning, “and all for nothing. It makes me very tired.”

“Heap good work now,” said Old Joe to Dick, as the latter rose from
the bench. “Joe, him lookin’.”

The boy said nothing, but there was determination in his manner as
he walked onto the diamond. For the time he forgot his home far away
under the shadow of the eternal Rockies, he forgot Felicia and her
calling voice, and he thought of nothing save the game in which he
was taking part.

“They will bat him out of the box this inning,” said the man with the
dog.

“They will not!” murmured Inza firmly.

“I hope not!” whispered Elsie. “He is handsome! Don’t you think he
is, Inza?”

“Yes; but not as handsome as Frank.”

“He is much younger.”

“He never can be as handsome as Frank!” exclaimed the loyal Inza.

“Somehow he reminds me of Bart,” said Elsie. “He is dark, and there
is something like Bart in his manner.”

“I have noticed it.”

Dick warmed up by throwing a few to Browning on first.

Gene Skelding, once the uncompromising enemy of Frank Merriwell,
was the first man to strike in this inning. Skelding had changed
and reformed, having quit his former vicious associates, and he was
proving to be quite a decent fellow.

Skelding, however, was not a heavy hitter, and Hodge knew it. Bart
called for the jump ball at the start, which Dick sent whistling over.

Skelding went after it.

“Strike!” said the umpire.

An out drop followed, and Gene fouled it.

“Two strikes!”

Then Dick sent in another rise. Gene fouled that, but, as two strikes
had been called, it did not count against him.

Then came one over his head, which he let pass.

Bart signed for an out drop. It came up slowly and looked pretty to
Gene, but he missed it cleanly, Hodge holding it.

“Batter is out!” announced the umpire.

A shout rose from the spectators.

“Pretty pitching!” cried Hodge approvingly.

Dick betrayed no sound of elation, nor did he notice the shouting
crowd.

Hans Dunnerwurst came toddling out with a bat.

“You vill had to put der plate righdt ofer der pall, my poy,” he
announced. “Der pad vons nefer hit at me. I haf an eye like an
eagles. Yaw!”

Then he proceeded to swipe at the very first one, although it was so
high that it seemed almost out of reach.

“What in the world have they got that chump on the team for?” angrily
exclaimed the man with the dog. “He couldn’t knock a corner off a
house if somebody threw it over the plate!”

“Here! here! what you doin’, Dutchy?” cried Ephraim Gallup. “Why
don’t you let that kind go, you big, fat chump?”

“You vas a pig, vat chumps myseluf!” snorted Hans angrily. “Don’d you
shooted off your mouth some more or I vill hit you in my eye! Dot’s
vot vos der madder mit Hannah!”

The next ball was so low that it almost hit the plate, yet Hans
seemed to shut his eyes and swipe at it wildly, missing it by about
two feet.

“Oh!” roared the crowd. “Where did he ever play ball?”

“None uf my pusiness!” squawked Hans, apparently very angry. “Shust
you vait an hour und I vill knock der pall off der cover!”

Dick Merriwell had been serious enough, but now the comical Dutch
youth proved too much for the boy, and he broke into a peal of
laughter.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “Oh, ha! ha! ha!”

“Maype you vill nod laugh so hardness britty quickness,” said Hans
hotly. “Shust you pay attendance to my business und bitch der pall!”

Dick received the ball from Bart, but he could not recover from his
amusement at once, and Morgan called for the umpire to make him
pitch.

Thinking the umpire might call a ball on him again for delaying the
game, Dick sent it over.

How it happened no one could tell, but Hans slashed at it and hit it
fairly, driving it over the infield and away into the outfield.

“Yow!” whooped the Dutch boy, as he made his short legs twinkle.
“Didn’d you told me so! I knewed vot der pall vould done to me!”

Packard saw there was a chance for Hans to reach second, and so he
sent him along. Never in all his life had the Dutch youth run faster,
and the sight was a most ludicrous one.

Swiftwing overtook the ball and turned to throw it to second. He was
a good thrower, and he lined it straight into the waiting hands of
Rattleton.

Just before reaching second Hans seemed to trip over his own feet,
and down he went, turning over and over on the ground, like a ball.
When he stopped he was sitting on second base, and he had reached it
in time to be safe.

How the crowd shouted.

“Dunnerwurst’s usual luck!” laughed Frank Merriwell. “He can blunder
into more things like that than any fellow I ever saw play baseball.”

Dick Merriwell had not stopped laughing, for the sight of Hans
running like a frightened duck and turning over and over to sit up on
the bag was so comical the boy found it impossible not to be amused.

“Well,” said the man with the dog, “that settles it! When a fat slob
like that can make a two-bagger off Merriwell’s brother, everybody
can hit him. Hey, Nero?”

“Bow-wow!” barked the dog.

Dade Morgan was well satisfied, and he wore his sweetest smile when
he walked out to the plate. He assumed an easy batting position,
swinging handsomely at the first one pitched, but failing to hit it.

“There’s a batter!” exclaimed the man with the dog.

Dick Merriwell steadied down now, giving Morgan the jump ball the
next time, which caused Dade to miss again.

Then Bart signed for a drop, but Dick shook his head, having been
given a tip from Frank. A high in shoot drove Dade back from the
plate, and an out followed. Morgan hit the ball foul.

“You’ll lace it next trip, Dade!” cried Packard.

“Und I vill get indo a score,” declared Dunnerwurst. “I vos a recular
chain-lightnings running pases!”

Dick took the time limit on Morgan, and gave him the jump ball once
more. Morgan missed it.

“You’re out!” said the umpire.

The man with the dog muttered something to himself, while the Yale
crowd cheered.

“Beautiful work, Dick!” exclaimed Frank. “Now you are pitching your
game!”

Packard ran in from the coach-line, and stepped out with his special
bat.

“Put it over good,” he invited. “I’ll hit it a mile.”

“All right,” said the boy coolly. “Here you have it.”

He threw the ball with a good rise on it, and Packard hit it.

Up into the air the ball sailed. Dick stood in his tracks.

“Take it, Dick!” cried Merry, as he ran in to back the boy up.

Down came the ball, and it was gracefully captured and held by the
boy pitcher, which retired the side.

“What’s the matter with Frank Merriwell’s brother?” shouted one of
the Yale men.

“He’s all right!” roared all the others.

Then, as the cheering subsided, up from the bench rose Old Joe
Crowfoot, and from his lips pealed a yell that was shrill and clear
and piercing. It was his tribute to the skill and prowess of his
beloved protégé.




                            CHAPTER XXXI.

                         A MOMENT OF PERIL.


The old Indian sat down and resumed smoking.

“Heap good!” he grunted, as Dick came in. “Make um strikin’ man go
swish-swish. ’Nother one send um up easy ball, you ketch him slick.
All right so! Injun Heart heap get into gear.”

Old Joe was beginning to pick up current slang.

Inza Burrage was signaling from the bleachers, and Frank started over
at once.

“Bring your brother!” she exclaimed, as soon as Merry was near. “I
want to speak to him.”

So Frank went back for Dick, who came over quietly.

Inza descended to the front of the bleachers, followed by Elsie, who
saw Bart approaching.

“I’m so glad to see you again, Frank!” exclaimed the dark-eyed girl,
her cheeks glowing, as she gave him her hand.

“And I to see you, Inza!” he returned, giving her hand a warm
pressure and looking deep into her eyes. “This is a great surprise.
I did not think of seeing you here. You must have had it nicely
arranged.”

“Didn’t we?” she exclaimed. “And this is your brother? He is
splendid, Frank.”

Merry introduced Dick, who lifted his cap, smiled into Inza’s dark
eyes, and gave her his hand. At the touch of their hands it seemed as
if a bond of sympathy was established between them.

In the meantime Bart was speaking with Elsie, who betrayed her
happiness in her voice and manner. Up on the bleachers a man was
talking to a big dog.

“Sec him, Nero!” said the man, pointing to Dick. “Look at him, boy!
That’s the one.”

The dog growled.

“Ha!” muttered the man. “Now you’ve got your eye on him!”

Again a growl.

“He’s a tramp,” said the man. “A tramp, Nero. Do you understand?”

The dog growled fiercely and seemed eager to break away, but his
master restrained him.

“Not now, boy,” he said. “Wait. He doesn’t look like a tramp, but he
is. You know what to do to tramps, don’t you, boy?”

The animal showed his teeth in something like a snarl.

“Steady! Hold your temper now, Nero, but watch him--watch him! That’s
all.”

By this time it was necessary for the three players to hurry back to
the bench, as John Swiftwing already had two strikes called against
him.

The dog strained and started when Dick walked away, but the man held
him in restraint.

Swiftwing finally hit the ball, but it went into the hands of
Skelding, who made a pretty throw to first, and the young Indian was
out.

Frank Merriwell was the next batter. He had a favorite bat, but, by
some mischance, it was not in the pile, and he was compelled to take
another stick.

Morgan smiled as Merry came up.

“Don’t hit it too hard,” he said. “Be satisfied with a two-bagger.”

Merry did not retort, but merely smiled a bit. Dade started with a
high one, but Frank did not bite, and a ball was called. Then came an
out drop that was wide of the plate. It was another ball.

Dade followed with a straight drop, which Merry let pass, but the
umpire called a strike. An in shoot forced Frank back.

“Three balls!” said the umpire.

“Got him in a hole!” cried Ready. “He can’t put it over, Merry.”

Perhaps Dade did not wish to put it over, for the following pitch was
a bad one, and Frank was sent to first on four balls.

Rattleton was the batter to follow, a fact known to Morgan. Harry
was not a sure hitter, but he was one who hit at the most unexpected
times. Morgan knew him pretty well, and he proceeded to work him.

Frank signed that he would go down on the second ball, and Harry
slashed at it, though it was a bad one.

Merry showed what fast base-running was then, as he was forced to do
his best and slide at the finish. He came up to the bag in handsome
style, a moment before Packard could touch him with the ball.

“How easy--oh, how easy!” sang Ready. “Don’t you like the way he does
it? Isn’t he a peach?”

It was a lucky thing that Merry stole the base, for Rattleton hit
weakly to Morgan, who could have made it a double play had there been
a chance. Rattleton was thrown out at first. Two men were out, and
Dick Merriwell was the hitter.

“Fan him, Dade!” urged Mason.

Morgan fancied the task would be simple, and he sent in the ball with
plenty of speed.

Mulloy dropped the first one, permitting it to roll away from him to
the right. Frank seized the opportunity to go to third. Barney leaped
after the ball, got it, and threw to third, but again Frank made a
handsome slide and was safe.

This was fast base-running, and it set the spectators to cheering
loudly. The Yale crowd broke into a cheer in unison, while Inza and
Elsie waved their banners.

Dick set his teeth. He had struck at the first one, but he realized
he was not swift enough, the ball having passed before he swung.

Morgan did not feel at all worried, for he fancied Dick would be an
easy out. The boy realized that he would not be able to swing hard
at the ball and hit it, on account of Morgan’s great speed, so he
gripped his bat firmly and gave it a short, sharp jerk when the next
ball was pitched.

It did not seem that he struck hard enough to kill a fly, but the
ball went off the bat on a line, and was a clean hit over the
infield, bringing Frank home.

Morgan was angry, and he could not help showing it. When the ball
came in to him, he threw it down at his feet and walked round the
pitcher’s plate. The ball rolled a short distance away, and then
there was a shout.

Dick Merriwell had seized the opportunity to try for second.

Morgan leaped for the ball, got it, whirled, sent it to Packard. It
was a bad throw, and the ball went far out into the field.

Dick did not stop, but kept straight on for third, running as fast as
he could, which was like a young deer.

Unfortunately the ball went straight to Gallup, who picked it up
cleanly and threw to third. Gallup was a phenomenal thrower, and the
ball sailed to third on a line.

Skelding took it just as Dick went forward in a headlong slide. Even
then the boy slid round Gene, and to many it seemed that he was safe,
but the umpire cried:

“Out at third!”

Frank made a protest, but the decision stood, and that made the third
man out. The score was tied, however.

It seemed that Dick was winded after that hard run, and it was
necessary for him to go into the box and begin pitching at once.

“Now they’ll pound him out!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “See if
they don’t!”

Dick, however, was scarcely breathing harder than usual. His training
had made him hard as iron, and he could stand the strain of severe
and sudden exertion without showing it.

Hodge knew his business pretty well, and he found difficulty in
adjusting the body-protector, which made time for Dick to fully
recover, in case he needed it.

The best batters of the Mysteries were up against the boy, Mason
leading off. The young pitcher sent the first ball over with a jump,
and Mason missed it.

“One strike!”

Then followed a high in shoot, but Hock had his eyes open, and let it
pass. The third one was too high, which made the second ball.

It seemed that Dick followed this with another high one, but the
ball took a sharp drop and fell across the shoulders of the batter.

“Two strikes!”

Immediately Mason objected, but the umpire silenced him instantly.
Still keeping the ball high, the boy used an in shoot, but it was not
over.

“Three balls!”

“He’s got to put it over!” exclaimed the man with the dog.

Dick did put it over, but the jump on the ball was too much for the
calculation of Mason, who missed it again and was out.

“That looks like batting him out of the box!” cried one of the Yale
men.

There was not a word from the man with the dog.

Dick knew well enough that Starbright must be a hitter, although the
big Yale man had not hit safely the first time up.

Again Frank gave the boy a sign, and again Dick worked the batter
carefully and in a heady manner, at last forcing him to hit a weak
one down to first. Browning got the ball and easily reached the base
ahead of the runner.

Two men were out, and the Yale crowd broke loose in a joyous manner.

Mulloy felt that it was necessary for him to do something, and yet he
declined to be pulled by a wide out.

“No ye don’t, me bhoy!” muttered the Irish youth. “Get ’em over av ye
ixpict me to swing.”

Dick did put one over, but it looked high, and came down with a sharp
drop.

Barney was deceived, and he growled when the umpire called a strike
on him. Following this, Dick used a swift, high, straight one, and
Mulloy hit it, although it would have been a ball had he let it pass.

It was a clean hit past second. Gamp fielded it in to second in a
hurry, preventing Barney from getting two bases.

“Now it starts!” muttered the man with the dog.

Gallup walked out in an awkward manner. He had hit the ball hard
before, and he felt confident of doing so again. But the boy used the
jump ball to start with, and Ephraim was surprised when he failed to
hit anything more solid than the empty air.

Then Dick wasted a ball in trying to “pull” the batter, but sent the
next one over the inside corner.

“Two strikes!”

“It’s all over!” cried Jack Ready. “You can’t hit him, Gallup, and
you may as well go back to the farm.”

Dick took his time about pitching the ball again. He was on the verge
of making the delivery when there came a cry of alarm.

Across the field a big dog was rushing straight at the boy pitcher,
his eyes gleaming, and his mouth open. Dick turned and saw the dog
coming. For a moment he stood there, evidently wondering if the
animal was coming at him, and then he drew back the hand that held
the ball.

“Look out!” roared the voices of men, as they rose to their feet in
the grand stand and on the bleachers. “The dog is mad!”

Then Dick threw the ball, swift as a bullet, straight into the open
mouth of the dog.

The creature had been on the verge of leaping at the throat of the
boy, but the speed of the ball checked him somewhat.

The ball seemed to become wedged in the dog’s jaws, and Dick easily
stepped aside and avoided the creature.

Onto the diamond came Old Joe Crowfoot. Like a leaping panther he
went at the dog, flung himself on the animal, and grasped it by the
neck.

Old Joe’s hand rose with something bright in it. It fell with a swift
movement, and a long knife was buried to the hilt in the side of the
dog.

Old Joe did not need to strike again, for his eye had been accurate
and his stroke sure. Pierced to the heart by the keen knife, the dog
was flung aside by the Indian to fall in its death throes on the dirt
of the diamond.

Crowfoot calmly wiped the blood-stained knife on his buckskin
trousers.

The excitement was great at that moment. A number of the players,
armed with bats, rushed out; but their aid was not needed, for the
dog was dying.

“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe. “Heap ugly dog! Him want to bite somebody. No
want to bite some more.”

A man came rushing across from the bleachers. It was the dog’s
master, and he was furious in his rage.

“That dog was worth five hundred dollars!” he snarled. “I’ll shoot
the old skunk who killed him!”

He pulled a revolver and tried to get at Old Joe, who watched him
quietly, seeming not at all alarmed.

Two policemen hurried up.

Frank Merriwell had placed himself between the owner of the dead dog
and Crowfoot.

“Put up that pistol!” commanded Frank.

“I’ll shoot him!” raged the man. “He has killed Nero!”

Then he saw the policemen hurrying forward, and he suddenly decided
to put the revolver away; but he called to the officers and demanded
that the slayer of the dog be arrested.

“He carries concealed weapons!” declared the man.

“Better drop that,” spoke Frank, in a low tone. “You have a revolver
on your person, and I shall make a charge against you if you kick up
trouble.”

“The dog must have been mad,” said one of the policemen.

“Of course he was,” exclaimed several of the players. “It’s great
luck he didn’t get at the boy.”

“Methinks Joseph Crowfoot, Esquire, is deserving of a gold medal,”
said Jack Ready. “He is a very handy old gentleman with a carver.”

“But he has no right to carry concealed weapons,” said one of the
officers. “We shall have to arrest him.”

“Even so, and I will cheerfully pay his fine,” came from Ready.

“But first make sure he has concealed weapons on his person,” said
Frank Merriwell.

“He had a knife.”

“It was in his hand when he went after the dog.”

“He must have it about him now.”

“It is easy enough to decide that point. Search him.”

Old Joe was standing with his arms folded on his breast, apparently
not at all concerned by the hubbub.

One of the officers advanced and grasped him by the shoulder, saying:

“Hand over that knife!”

“No got knife,” was the scornful answer.

“Hand it over!” sharply and threateningly commanded the policeman.

“No got knife,” repeated the redskin.

“Don’t lie! I saw you have it.”

“No got it.”

“If you don’t hand it over, I shall search you.”

Joe stood straight as a mountain pine, his beady black eyes full of
defiance.

“Not got it,” was his reiteration.

“Come,” growled the officer. “I’ll take you up here and search you.”

The Indian did not object, but, when he was taken into a room beneath
the grand stand and searched, the knife was not found upon him.

“What have you done with it?” demanded the puzzled and angry
policeman.

“No got it,” was all he could force Joe to say in answer.

“But you had it.”

“Ugh!” grunted the redskin.

Frank Merriwell came to Joe’s relief.

“You have found no concealed weapon on him, officer,” said Merry.
“Won’t it be best to let him go? You know he did a good job, and
saved somebody from getting hurt by that dog.”

“What is he traveling round here for, anyhow?” asked the cop, unable
to recover from his anger.

“He is the mascot of our team,” Merry exclaimed. “He is also a friend
to my brother.”

“But he has no right in a civilized country. I ought to run him in
and see that he’s properly cared for.”

“I will see that he is properly cared for, Mr. Officer. Leave him to
me.”

“What if the owner of the dog makes a complaint against him?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he hasn’t, and he knows he will get into trouble if he does.”

Frank had hit the nail on the head. The owner of the dog realized he
had been heard when he pointed out Dick Merriwell to the huge animal,
and he was afraid to carry the matter too far. Although furious at
the death of the dog, he soon decided to withdraw and keep still, for
the time, at least.

Frank talked privately to the officer for a few moments, promising
Crowfoot should face any complaint made, and the policeman decided
not to arrest the old Indian then.

The umpire had called time as soon as he could, and the game was
not resumed until Merriwell and Old Joe appeared, followed by the
policeman, and walked out to the bench, where the Indian sat down.

Then the crowd cheered for the aged Indian, but he seemed not to hear
their shouting. With perfect nonchalance he proceeded to refill and
relight his pipe.




                            CHAPTER XXXII.

                          GETTING THE LEAD.


Berlin Carson had been quick-witted enough to get the knife away from
Crowfoot, aided by Dick Merriwell, who was able to make the Indian
understand he was in danger if the weapon was found upon his person.

Frank’s eyes detected this move, and so he did not worry much when
the redskin was searched for concealed weapons.

Dick’s nerve seemed unshaken, as he again walked on the field to
resume pitching. The Yale men broke into wild cheering for the boy,
which was taken up all around the field.

“That’s ernough to make a feller strike out,” said Gallup.

Instead of striking out, however, he put up an easy fly that was
gathered in by Browning.

The owner of the dog did not return to the vicinity of the Yale crowd
on the bleachers. He had lost his money, and he did not wish to give
the winners a chance to laugh at him.

In this inning Dick Merriwell had proved himself a marvel for a
boy of his years; but the game was young, and Morgan’s team felt
confident of falling on the lad before long and striking a winning
streak.

Morgan was on his mettle when he again walked out to pitch.

“I must win this game!” he mentally exclaimed. “It will be awful to
lose the game, with a boy like that pitching against me!”

With the head of the batting-list up, it looked as if there was
something doing for the Merries. It looked more so when Ready reached
first on a safe hit, and Morgan set his teeth.

Carson did not attempt to sacrifice, Merriwell having given the “hit
and run” signal. He drove the ball hotly along the ground between
Skelding and Mason. Gene got his hand on the ball, but it carromed
off. Fortunately for him, it went straight into the hands of Mason,
who picked it up and threw like a flash to second.

The ball reached Packard before Ready got down, and he lined it to
first, completing a pretty double play.

“Now ye’re playing ball, me bhoys!” cried Barney Mulloy, in deep
satisfaction. “Kape it up! Kape it up!”

Morgan smiled again when Bart Hodge faced him. It seemed that his
temper had been restored, and he was perfectly confident. He used his
head in working Hodge, but found Bart a fine waiter. With two strikes
and three balls called, Bart declined to swing on the next pitch,
though to many the ball looked good.

“Take your base,” said the umpire.

Hodge wore a grim smile as he trotted down to first. Then he got a
fair lead, and went for second on the first ball pitched. Mulloy
threw, but Hodge sprinted like the wind, and slid under safely.

“That’s playing ball!” cried Frank.

Hodge was a great worker, and he never quit, no matter how poor the
prospect. But all were surprised when Bart went to third on a “dope
ball” sent in by Morgan to Browning. The ball hung in the air, and,
having a lead on it, Bart set his teeth and fairly flew along the
line.

Mulloy threw as soon as he could when the ball reached him, but the
runner went round behind Skelding and was safe.

“Gentlemen,” said a Yale man, rising amid the group on the bleachers,
“you see the kind of a man we lost when that fellow got his
sheepskin! He is in every respect a jim-dandy!”

Somehow the success of Hodge seemed to rattle Morgan, for he followed
with a wild pitch, and Bart came scampering home with the run that
put the Merries in the lead.

But Morgan settled down after that, and proceeded to strike Browning
out.

“Now hold ’em, boys!” cried Ready, waltzing down to third. “We must
show these fresh chaps that they are not in the same class as our
great and mighty aggregation.”

Dismal Jones really tried to smile when he walked out with a bat, but
the effort seemed to cause him pain, and it was very distressing in
its effect.

Dick found that Jones was determined to make him put the ball over,
and he finally did so, which gave Dismal the opportunity he wanted.
It was a gentle little hit, but the ball dropped beyond the infield,
and Jones landed on first base.

It is possible that Dick regarded Skelding as too easy, but Gene
did not hit the ball fair and hard. It went down to Ready on a slow
bound, and Jack stopped it awkwardly, letting it get out of his
hands. When he picked it up to throw it was too late to make a double
play, and Skelding was well down toward first.

Jack would have sent the ball across, but, fearing for a wild throw,
Merry shouted for him to hold it. Ready had made the first error for
the Merries.

But now came Hans Dunnerwurst.

“Mofe your fielders avay off nearer!” he cried, with a wave of his
short arm. “I vos goin’ to knock der pall der elefated railroadt ofer
alretty soon.”

Dick remembered that the Dutch youth had secured a most unexpected
two-bagger the first time up, and this put the lad at his best. He
used his best speed and a jump ball till two strikes were called;
then he resorted to a drop.

Dunnerwurst hit the ball straight to Ready, and hit it hard. It went
on a line. Jack froze to it, held it, and threw to second.

Both runners had started when the ball was hit, and Jones had not
even stopped running for third when the ball whistled past his head
on its way to second.

Rattleton was wide-awake, and he covered the bag, taking the throw
and whirling to first.

Skelding had stopped and was trying to dig back to first.

Harry shot the ball into Browning’s hands, thus completing a
beautiful triple play.

How the crowd roared! This was ball-playing to satisfy the most
exacting fan.

Hans Dunnerwurst stood with his mouth open, staring blankly.

“Vot vos der madder?” he muttered. “I pelief somebody vos oudt
alretty!”

But it seemed to take him several seconds to understand that the side
had been retired.

“Wasn’t that beautiful, Elsie?” cried Inza. “Did you ever see
anything so fine before?”

Elsie laughed and gave Inza’s arm a squeeze.

“Yes,” she said, “I saw something just as fine when Bart stole those
two bases, one after another.”

“It’s Bart, Bart, all the time!” laughed the dark-eyed girl. “Do you
never think of any one but Bart?”

“Hardly ever,” confessed Elsie, blushing.

“Let me git holt of a bub-bub-bub-bat!” exclaimed Joe Gamp, as he
strode in to the bench. “Danged if I have made a hit to-day! It’s
tut-tut-tut-time I did something.”

Morgan’s courage was good when he went into the box, and he did not
let up a bit. His speed remained great, and Gamp threatened to strike
out quickly. However, Joe bumped the ball at last, though it went to
Dade on the bound, and he threw Joe out at first.

“That’s a good start, old man!” came from Oliver Packard. “Keep it
up! We’ll get into the game and win yet.”

Swiftwing hit the ball, but it sailed high into the air. Mason got
under it and held it safely when it came down.

Morgan remembered what Merry had done the first time, and this time
he resolved to make Frank hit. He put the ball over with great speed,
getting two strikes called. Then Merry placed a little single and
took first.

With Rattleton up, however, there seemed little show. Harry looked at
Frank, who gave him a signal to wait.

Morgan had a way of working the corners, and just now he could not
seem to get the ball over, which gave Rattleton a base on balls.

“We’ll score a few right now!” cried Ready. “Here is the chap who can
turn the trick. Remember what he did to you last time, Dade.”

It was Dick Merriwell, and he received a round of applause when he
stepped out to strike. Dick had plenty of courage, and he finally
found one that suited him, hitting it fairly. The ball went out on a
line, and the base-runners started instantly.

It looked like a clean hit, but Dismal Jones came in on the jump and
caught the ball within six inches of the ground.

“Out!” cried the umpire.

The side was retired.

“Almost good, Dick,” said Frank. “You bumped it hard, boy.”

But Dick was not pleased, as he had fancied the hit good.

Morgan faced Dick, who proceeded to strike Dade out.

“Good start!” said Frank.

Packard drove a hot one at Frank, who gathered it gracefully and
whistled it across to Browning, putting the second man out.

“One, two, three,” counted Ready. “Mason is the next victim. Walk up
and take your bitters, Hock.”

Mason frowned, for Ready’s airy manner always irritated him. Then he
hit the first ball pitched, putting it into right field for one base.

“Good boy!” cried Ready. “But you’ll die there, Hocksie.”

This prophecy proved true, Starbright sending out a long fly that was
captured by Gamp.

“Let’s quit fooling, fellows--let’s quit fooling,” urged Ready. “We
may as well clinch the game now as any time. I’ll lead right off with
a two-bagger.”

But his two-bagger proved simply a pretty fly into the hands of
Dismal Jones, who was as sure as grim death in his fielding.

“Hard luck!” muttered Ready; “but it is also combined with poor
judgment in hitting. I am not such a much. At least, I am beginning
to fear so.”

Carson found one that suited him, and drove it far into the field.
However, Gamp returned it to second in time to prevent him from
taking more than one base.

Ready started coaching near first. Carson played off, fancying Morgan
was on the point of delivering the ball, and then Dade suddenly
whirled and threw to Starbright.

“Back!” yelled Ready.

Carson tried to get back. Swift as he was, however, Starbright had
the ball, and put it onto him.

“Out!” declared the umpire.

“Will you please kick me?” exclaimed Ready. “I did that by getting
you off too far.”

To Hodge it seemed that his show was poor, as there was no one ahead
of him on bases when he came up, and two were out. He remembered,
however, what he had done before, and he resolved to make another
attempt of the same sort.

With two out, Morgan ventured to put one right over for Bart. Hodge
hit it for a safe single.

“Well, here we go!” cried Ready. “He’ll make another run without
half-trying.”

But Morgan watched Bart so closely that the latter could not steal
second, as he had before. Then Browning put up an infield fly, which
was captured by Mason.

The sixth inning began with Mulloy at the bat. Barney led off with
a clean single. Dick permitted the Irish youth to get too much of
a start, and he stole second, for all of Bart’s handsome throw to
Rattleton.

Gallup struck hard at the first ball, but missed, as it jumped. The
next one failed to take the jump, although Dick threw it for that
kind of a ball, and Ephraim smashed it.

Out on a line whistled the ball, going far into right field, Carson
chasing it. Mulloy came sprinting home, while Ephraim went down to
second. The throw to second was not good, and Gallup kept on to
third, which he reached.

The score was tied, and the Mysteries had a man on third, with no one
out.

“Isn’t that awful!” gasped Elsie Bellwood. “I’m afraid they are going
to lose the game! Why doesn’t Frank go in and pitch now?”

“Frank will go if he thinks it necessary,” said Inza.

Dick Merriwell was pale, but he did not seem at all rattled. Jones
stood up to the plate, and refused to hit anything that was not
fairly over. Dick tried to work him too long, with the result that
the umpire sent the batter to first on balls.

Hodge threw the ball slowly to first. Something unexpected happened.
Quick as a flash, Gallup took advantage of the slow throw to dash for
home.

A shout went up. Ephraim flung himself forward in a slide. Browning
whistled the ball back to Bart, who took it and swung to touch Gallup.

Ephraim was safe, and the Mysteries had taken the lead. Still not a
man was out.

Dick Merriwell seemed dazed, which led Jones to fancy he could steal
second. He started before the boy had made a motion to deliver the
ball to the next batter, and Dick suddenly whirled and threw to
Rattleton.

Dismal was caught between the bases. For a moment there was a little
excitement as Jones tried to dodge the ball and escape being tagged,
but Dick ran in, got the ball himself and chased the runner down.

Flushed but triumphant, Dick returned to the box. Skelding came to
bat, and hit weakly to Frank, who threw to Bruce, and the second man
was out. Dunnerwurst put up an easy fly to Rattleton.

“We must square this up in a hurry,” said Jack Ready. “They had
horseshoe luck to start with that inning. It ended quickly enough
when we got into gear.”

Mr. Hazard came over and smiled on Frank.

“I rather think we have you, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.

“There is another think due you, sir,” put in Ready.

Gamp was earnest to make a hit, but drove a grounder to Mason, who
threw handsomely to Starbright.

Swiftwing sent a long fly into the outfield, and Jones muffed it,
after a hard run.

Frank placed a hit in right field, sending the young Indian round to
third. Merry then signaled for Rattleton to bunt the first ball.

Frank got a lead and started for second with the swing of the
pitcher’s arm.

Rattleton was not a scientific bunter, and he hit the ball into the
air. Morgan ran for it, got under it, held it, and then threw to
first, making a double play.

Thus the sixth inning closed, with Morgan’s team a score in the lead.




                           CHAPTER XXXIII.

                          THE FINAL SCORE.


From that time to the end the game was exciting, both sides playing
fast ball. In the beginning of the seventh Morgan struck out again.
Packard flied out to Gamp. Mason got first on balls, but Starbright
put a liner into Frank Merriwell’s hands.

Of course Merriwell’s team did its best, but Morgan was in fine form,
and he permitted not a hit, Dick Merriwell being thrown out at first
by Mason, Ready fanning, and Carson hitting to second.

The eighth opened with Mulloy at bat once more. He smashed a hot
one through Ready, who made his second error in the game. Gallup
advanced the Irish youth a bag on a sacrifice, Merriwell throwing the
long-legged youth out at first.

Another sacrifice by Jones brought Mulloy up to third; but Skelding
proved unable to drive in another run, his long fly being taken by
Gamp.

Hodge frowned when he found himself up again with no one ahead of him
on the bags. He led off with a hit. Browning tried to sacrifice, but
put up an infield fly, forcing Bart to get back to first. The ball
was captured by Mason.

As Gamp came to bat, Bart took a desperate chance, and again stole
second.

“Now for a clean hit!” sighed Jack Ready.

Gamp smashed the ball, sending it far into the field, but Jones got
under it. Hodge took a chance and sprinted for third. Jones made
a handsome throw, and Bart was out by four feet, which ended the
Merries’ chance for tieing the score in that inning.

Morgan’s team had not given up hope of making more runs, and they
came to bat with considerable ginger in the first of the ninth.

Dunnerwurst pranced out with his stick, and again invited the
fielders to “mofe pack nearer.” Knowing that Hans was liable to
strike at almost anything, Dick started with a high ball.

The Dutch lad hit it, and the ball went out between first and second.

“Didn’t you toldt me so!” whooped Hans, as he scooted for first.

It seemed like a safe hit, but Carson was playing short, and the ball
came to him on a beautiful bound. He picked it up cleanly and threw
without a moment of delay to first.

“Out!” cried the umpire, as the ball spanked into Browning’s mitt, a
moment before Hans reached the bag.

“Roppery! roppery!” yelled the excited Dutch lad. “Dot vos a goot
pase-hit, und he hat no pusiness to throw me oudt alretty!”

Dick Merriwell laughed. Dade Morgan tried to secure a pass to first,
but found he could not do so, being compelled to hit. He drove the
ball hard at Harry, who fancied he had it cold, but a bad bound
caused Rattleton to fumble, which let Dade down to first by a second.

“Ah-ha!” cried Barney Mulloy. “Now we’re in th’ game! It’s too bad to
do it, but it can’t be hilped. Crack it out, Packard, me bhoy!”

Dick began on Oliver with the jump ball, and Morgan’s second-baseman
fanned twice at the first two. Then the young pitcher wasted two
balls, after which he again used the jump ball, and Packard struck
out.

“I’m sorry for you, Dade!” cried Jack Ready. “You’re anchored there.”

Thus far Mason had made two hits during the game, one of them being
a two-bagger. Dick regarded Hock as dangerous, and yet he had
considerable confidence in his backing. An in shoot deceived Hock,
who batted the ball straight at Merriwell.

Frank gathered it up easily, tossing it over to Rattleton in time to
catch Morgan on a force, which retired the final man of the Mysteries.

“Hold them down, Morgan,” said Packard, “and the game is ours.”

Morgan was determined to do everything in his power, and he
succeeded in striking out Swiftwing, which was a good start.

Frank walked out with his bat. He knew the case was desperate, and he
did not wish to lose the game. Yet Morgan had pitched splendidly.

Dade knew Frank had a way of “cutting ice” at critical times, and he
did his best to fool Merry. By accident more than otherwise, Dade
finally put a fine swift ball right over the plate. Merry met it
fairly, and the ball went out on a line.

A shout arose, and Frank flew to first.

“Go on!” shrieked a coacher.

He did not wait to see where the ball was, but kept on to second. The
uproar was great, but Frank saw Ready by third motioning for him to
come on, and he did not let up. As he came near third Ready motioned
for him to stop, but not to slide.

It was a clean three-bagger. But Merriwell had not scored, and
Morgan’s team was still one run ahead.

Rattleton was the striker, and he had not made a hit for the day.
Morgan resolved that he should not. Harry pretended to be anxious to
hit, but he really longed to get first on balls. Dade drove him into
a hole, however, by getting two strikes called on him.

Then Mulloy returned the ball to Morgan on a slow throw, and Frank
Merriwell scooted for home instantly. It was a desperate thing to do
and brought every witness up standing.

Morgan shook with excitement. The moment he caught the ball he threw
it, and his throw was bad. Merry slid, while Mulloy fumbled the ball
just long enough to let the run in.

The score was tied, and again the Yale cheer came from the group of
students about Inza and Elsie.

Dick ran out and grasped Frank’s hand, his face glowing.

“Oh, that was fine!” he cried. “No one but you would have dared try
it!”

“Something had to be done,” smiled Frank.

Crowfoot grunted when they approached the bench.

“Heap slick!” he said.

The old Indian seemed to enjoy a game of baseball thoroughly.

Rattleton, compelled to strike, hit the next ball, but sent it
straight into the hands of Gallup.

“I think it’s a case of an extra inning,” said Merry.

Dick walked out to strike. Morgan put one over, and the boy lined it
out for a single.

Then it was Ready’s turn, and Jack promptly bunted toward third,
beating the ball to first. Dick had reached second, and, aroused by
Frank’s example, the lad soon stole third.

Ready remained on first. When Morgan pitched the next time Jack
loafed down from first, purposely permitting himself to be cornered
between the bases. Then Ready played back and forth, getting up as
much excitement as possible.

In the midst of this excitement Dick Merriwell dashed for home.
Packard had the ball, and he threw home to stop the run. The boy,
however, was running like a streak, and he shot forward in a long,
clean slide.

The ball reached Mulloy a moment too late, and Dick was safe at the
plate, having stolen home with the winning run.

Then there was an uproar, for the Yale men came pouring upon the
field, Inza and Elsie with them, while Old Joe walked out and put his
arms round the lad who had won his own game in the ninth.

“You heap much like Steady Hand!” exclaimed the redskin. “Um two make
heap hot stuff! Whoop!”

Inza burned up and grasped both of Dick’s hands.

“Splendid!” she laughed. “You are a Merriwell!”

Elsie impulsively threw her arms round Dick, and kissed him. Then she
started back, her face crimson; but it could be no more crimson than
was that of the boy, who looked from Inza to Elsie, unable to speak
for a moment.

At last he said:

“Thank you! I am sure I could do better next time if I knew you were
watching.”

“King Richard,” cried Inza, “I decorate you with the badge of
honor--the Yale blue! Some day, when you go to Yale, you will wear
it, I hope. If so, I know you will defend it as bravely and nobly as
your brother has defended the blue, and you will be an honor to Old
Eli.”


THE END.


No. 76 of the MERRIWELL SERIES, entitled “Dick Merriwell at Fardale,”
by Burt L. Standish, is a rattling good story with some exciting
games, and will delight every boy who loves good sport.




      _Adventure Stories
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  All classes of fiction are to be found among the Street &
  Smith novels. Our line contains reading matter for every one,
  irrespective of age or preference.

  The person who has only a moderate sum to spend on reading matter
  will find this line a veritable gold mine.


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                          New York, N. Y.




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg 110: ‘went ove third’ replaced by ‘went over third’.
  Pg 170: ‘hardly synonomous’ replaced by ‘hardly synonymous’.
  Pg 183: ‘quick  mption’ replaced by ‘quick consumption’.
  Pg 202: ‘English langguage’ replaced by ‘English language’.
  Pg 205: ‘a litle fly’ replaced by ‘a little fly’.
  Pg 222: ‘Budd McCann fancied’ replaced by ‘Bud McCann fancied’.
  Pg 235: ‘like a lan’ replaced by ‘like a lamb’.
  Pg 243: ‘As  ult, large’ replaced by ‘As a result, large’.
  Pg 315: ‘Gramp was earnest’ replaced by ‘Gamp was earnest’.





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