THE NINE AT PRACTISE.
The following morning the principal Denver newspaper contained the
following:
“FRANK MERRIWELL ACCEPTS.
“MR. EDITOR.
“DEAR SIR: While reading your paper yesterday I was somewhat
surprised to see the challenge of Mr. David Morley, manager of the
Denver Reds. While it is true that I have a number of my friends
with me at the present time and have contemplated playing ball,
it is not true that I have taken special pains to pick a nine, or
that I have publicly expressed an intention of ‘wiping up the earth
with everything I can find west of the Mississippi.’ It seems to
me that Mr. Morley’s challenge is couched in language that is not
only offensive, but is likewise insulting. My ball-team has not
played together this season, and therefore is not in its best form.
Nevertheless, I am willing to meet the Reds, and we will do our best
to make the game interesting. As we are out for sport and not to
make money, I decline to play the game for a special purse; but I am
willing to make an agreement that the winning team shall take the
entire gate-receipts.
“Yours truly, FRANK MERRIWELL.
“Hotel Metropole.”
As it was necessary for Merry’s team to get some practise without
delay, Frank secured the privilege of using the principal ball-field of
the city that afternoon.
In the forenoon the entire team appeared at a tailor’s, and the men
were measured for suits.
At two o’clock in the afternoon the boys appeared on the field in order
to get some practise, having bought bats, balls, gloves, mitts, and
other necessary articles.
It is needless to say that Dick Merriwell went along. Old Joe Crowfoot,
however, had disappeared the previous night, and had not been seen
since.
It was not thought that they would be troubled with spectators, as
pains had been taken not to let it become known that they thought of
practising at that time.
Dick took a seat on the bleachers, where he intended to remain and
watch the practise.
Frank put his men onto the field, with Swiftwing in left, Gamp center,
and Carker right. Of course, Browning, apparently too weary to move,
was detailed to cover first bag. In the old days Rattleton had made
a very satisfactory man on second, and Merry placed him there again,
while Ready was planted near third. Carson was a good infield man at
any point, and Merry made him short-stop.
Then Bart and Frank started in to give the men some work by batting out
to them, Merry having the infield and Bart batting to the outfield.
This was the simplest form of practise, but it was good work to start
with, and soon the men were hard at it, although they could not do as
well as they might had they been in regular uniforms.
“Don’t be afraid of getting the crease out of your trousers, Rattles,
old man,” called Ready. “Tailors are hard-working and industrious
people, and they must have business. Besides, we’ve got to hump
ourselves if we shave any frozen liquid in that little game with the
redoubtable Reds. Yea, verily!”
They went into it in earnest, although it quickly became apparent
that practise was sadly needed. Frank gave them all kinds of balls to
handle, hot grounders, skippers, slow bunts, high flies, little pops,
and liners.
“Ready!” he called, and out to Jack he drove a slasher along the
third-base line, making the fielder by that bag jump and stretch for it.
Jack cuffed it with one hand, stopped it, fumbled it, got it up, and
lined it across to first. But the throw was bad.
“That stop was all right,” said Frank, “and you would have had time
to get the man after your fumble if you’d made a good throw. Lots of
games are lost by bad infield throwing. Try it again.”
By that time the ball had been thrown in to him, and he again sent it
skimming the ground toward third.
Ready set his teeth, got squarely in front of it by a hard dive,
stopped it, but did not pick it up cleanly, fumbled a little, and then
made a beautiful line throw across to first.
With one foot on the bag, Browning lazily smothered the ball in his big
mitt.
“That was better,” commented Frank, “but it wasn’t perfect. Try
another.”
And again he drove a “daisy-clipper” toward Jack, though not directly
at him. This time Ready scooped up the ball, turned like a flash, and
made a fine throw to first.
“That’s the stuff!” declared Frank approvingly. “Now you are doing it
handsomely.”
He kept the others at it in the same manner, never letting up on a man
till he did his work right. He had studied the temperament of each
individual man, and some he praised, while others he criticized, though
both praise and criticism were of the kind to be most effective without
harming the player.
Rattleton had not been playing ball for some time, and two failures to
pick up hard grounders seemed to take the confidence out of him, for
he muttered, loud enough for Carson to hear:
“I’m afraid my ball-playing is about over. I’m not in it any more. I
feel like ficking myself over the kence--I mean, kicking myself over
the fence.”
He had not intended that Frank should hear, but Merry’s keen ears
caught the words. Immediately Frank divined that Rattleton had lost
confidence, and he decided at once that it must be restored. Then he
batted a comparatively easy one straight at the second-baseman, who
managed to get it and send it to first.
“Why, you can’t help doing it right when you get into gear, Rattleton!”
laughed Merriwell. “It’s just as natural for you as it is to talk
backwards.”
Harry knew the ball had been easy to get, but these words seemed to
indicate that Frank had confidence in him, and that served to restore
his own confidence. In a few minutes he was working much better, and he
soon went after the balls as if he felt sure of getting them.
“It isn’t necessary to take a double step to throw, Carson,” said
Frank. “That’s a new trick with you. You don’t throw that way
naturally. When you get a ball up clean, use the short-arm throw in
sending it over to first, with a step just as the arm swings forward,
putting the weight of your body into the throw. That gets the ball
away from you without loss of time.”
Carson’s face was red, but he nodded, saying, good-naturedly:
“I’ll try it, if I can remember.”
“Of course you can remember in practise,” said Frank, “and what you get
in the habit of doing in practise is what you’ll do in a game. That’s
what hurts lots of men. They fool around in practise, and it harms
them when they come into a game. In practising, every man must handle
himself just as he would in a game, if he wishes for the best results.”
When Browning betrayed a disinclination to “stretch” for balls that
were thrown wide, Frank immediately opened on him sharply. He did not
do so in a jollying way, knowing jollying would not awaken the big
fellow to his best, but spoke in earnest.
“I’d lick any other man for that,” muttered Bruce to himself; “but, as
long as it’s Merriwell, I guess I’ll have to ginger up.”
And he did.
All this served to awaken Dick Merriwell to a realizing sense of
Frank’s supreme authority over men, and he glowed with pride in his big
brother.
Frank was giving close attention to the work of the infield, and so he
did not observe much that was taking place in the outfield. After a
while, however, Bart came close and said, in a low tone:
“It’s no use, Merriwell; the Indian has lost his cunning. He hasn’t
made more than one decent catch thus far, and he’ll be just about as
good as a ten-year-old kid in that field.”
Merry was somewhat surprised by Bart’s words, for Swiftwing had
been a good man in days gone by. True, he was a better pitcher than
outfielder, but he had demonstrated more than once that he could do
good work in the field. Immediately Frank said:
“Change round. I’ll bat to the outfield a while.”
He drove the first ball out to Carker. It was an easy fly, and Greg
gathered it in without trouble.
Then Frank gave Gamp one that made the long-legged New Hampshire youth
cover ground to the best of his ability; but Gamp was in form, and he
pulled the ball down after his long run.
It was Swiftwing’s turn. Merry put up an easy one, but he refrained
from driving it directly at the Indian, knowing many fielders will
miss a ball when nervous if they have to stand still and wait for it,
although they will catch it when they have to make a brisk move to get
under it.
Swiftwing got under the ball, but he did not hold it.
“You couldn’t drop another one if you tried to,” cried Frank, in a
manner and tone that indicated his firm belief in his own words. Then
he proceeded to drive another out to the young Indian.
Swiftwing got under it, but again the ball bounced out of his hands.
This time, however, he made a leap for it, and caught it before it fell
to the ground.
“That’s what I told you!” laughed Frank. “I knew you couldn’t drop the
ball, old man. It’s no use for any old ball to try to get away from
you.”
He made Swiftwing believe it, and from that time on the Indian steadily
improved, so that, before long, he was catching everything any one
could reasonably expect him to hold. Hodge was astonished.
“How the dickens do you do it?” he asked. “You have a way of making a
man do his best.”
Frank smiled.
“Few men do their best unless encouraged,” he said; “but all men cannot
be encouraged in the same way.”
The main secret of Merriwell’s success in handling men was that he
brought out the very best that was in them. Had Bart paused to think
about this he would have known it was true, for Frank had developed in
Hodge all the best qualities of the latter.
Frank directed Bart to fling aside his bat and put on his big
catching-mitt. Then Merry batted to both infield and outfield,
directing the throwing of each man. The throwing-practise was sharp and
fairly good. Hodge overthrew second the first time he sent the ball
down, but after that he sent the ball straight as a rifle-bullet.
“Runner on first and second!” called Frank. “Double play!”
He drove the ball to short, and Carson picked it up, snapped it to
third, upon which Ready drove it to second in beautiful style.
“Sure double,” said Merriwell. “Runner on first, one man out, two
strikes on the batter. Double ’em up.”
Down between first and second bounded the ball. Rattleton went out for
it, his teeth set, and took it successfully. Then he wheeled and jerked
it back to second. Carson had covered second when he saw Rattleton
start after the ball, and he took the throw. The ball did not linger in
his hands, but went whistling to first, where Browning smothered it.
“No mistake about that,” asserted Frank. “The swiftest runner in the
country could not have made first on that.”
It was amazing how those fellows improved in a short time under
Merriwell’s direction. Frank called them in, one at a time, to get
batting-practise, Hodge putting on cage and body-protector.
“Come out here, Dick,” said Frank. “I want you to throw some, while I
coach the batters.”
This call had been unexpected by the boy, and he hesitated for a moment.
“That’s right,” said Browning, who was the first batter; “give us
something easy.”
Immediately Dick left the bleachers and entered the diamond, his eyes
flashing and his lips pressed together.
“Don’t strike him out, Dick,” adjured Merry, as he tossed the ball to
the lad. “He’d feel bad if you did.”
“No danger,” grunted Browning. “The outfielders better move back.”
Frank went up behind the catcher, announcing that he would act as
umpire and coach.
Dick Merriwell had tossed aside his jacket as he entered the diamond.
His shoulders and arms were fairly good for a boy of his age, although
they might have been developed more.
“Give your signals,” called the boy to Bart.
Frank had been teaching him to pitch by catcher’s signals.
“Oh, you won’t need to bother about that,” said Browning.
The words of the big fellow seemed to put the boy on his mettle. Hodge
called for an out, and Dick delivered it quickly. Browning was not
looking for a curve, and he swung at it.
He did not touch it.
“One strike!” laughed Frank. “At least, he fooled you once.”
“Why, the young rascal has a curve!” exclaimed Bruce, in surprise. “I
thought he had never seen a game.”
“He never has.”
“Oh, say----”
“It’s a fact, but he has been practising some.”
“Oh, well, one curve is pretty good for a boy like him; but he’ll never
fool me with it again.”
Bart called for an in, and the boy nodded.
Then Dick swung out with all the speed he could command, which was
excellent for a lad of his age. The ball seemed coming straight over,
and Bruce fancied it must be a straight one this time. He slashed at it
hard, but the ball took a sharp in shoot, and he fanned again.
“Is it possible!” laughed Frank. “Now, wouldn’t it be awful if it
really did happen that---- But I won’t speak of it.”
“Confound him!” growled the big Yale graduate. “He has two curves! You
must have found him an apt pupil, Merriwell.”
“Not at first; but he is coming into it all right.”
“I should guess yes! But I fancy his stock of tricks is exhausted now.
I’ll just have to line it out.”
Hodge signaled for another in, but Dick shook his head. He also shook
his head on being given a signal for an out, but nodded when Bart
called for a drop.
Then the boy threw a ball that seemed a very pretty one to Bruce, but
it suddenly dropped toward the ground, just when the big fellow swung
the bat, and he missed it for the third time.
“Struck him out, Dick!” said Frank, smiling. “I knew you could do it.”
“Struck me out, by thunder!” rumbled Bruce, his face crimson. “Struck
out by a kid like that!”
He seemed to be greatly cut up over it, but Merry was highly satisfied.
“He struck you out, for one reason, because you were too confident,
Browning,” said Frank. “You thought you were dead sure to hit a little
chap like that. It is this same overconfidence that sometimes makes a
good batter strike out. A heady pitcher often gives a good batter the
impression that it is easy to get hits off him, doing it for the very
purpose of fooling the batter. There are lots of tricks in pitching
besides throwing curves. Change of speed is necessary. Then a pitcher
may often fool a batter by appearing to have no control over the ball.
The batter thinks he is sure of getting a base on balls, and he waits,
throwing away his chances.”
Then Merry directed Dick to give Bruce some good straight ones,
instructing the big fellow to swing to meet the ball, and not to “kill
it.”
“It’s the first duty of every batter to get his eye on the ball,”
said Frank. “If he stands up and slashes away with all his strength,
he seldom succeeds in this. Slashing is what spoils many good men who
might become skilful batters.”
Browning had a reputation as a “home-run hitter,” and no home-run
hitter is ever a sure hitter. It’s the man who meets the ball cleverly
and places it for singles who is the most valuable. Of course, there
are times when home-run hitting counts, and it always enthuses the
spectators; but the man who tries for nothing save long hits does not
obtain the best results.
Coached by Frank, Browning met the ball handsomely several times, and
then was sent out to his base, Ready being called in.
“I suppose I’m the only real thing that never fans,” chirped the
apple-cheeked fellow.
Frank looked at Dick and nodded. Bart gave his signals, and Jack began
to fan at once, missing the first two.
“Oh, Laura!” he exclaimed. “How did it happen? But I always do that to
fool the pitcher. Then I put the next one over the fence.”
The next one, however, was a high in shoot, and he was completely
deceived, as Browning had been.
“Look here, Richard, my son,” said Ready; “you’re altogether too flip!
Is this the way you treat your trusting friends?”
The boy showed his teeth in a smile that was very attractive,
illuminating his entire face. That face was a most expressive one,
betraying his suddenly shifting emotions.
“I’ll have to teach him to work the batter with his looks,” said
Frank. “There is something in it. A pitcher who looks intensely savage
sometimes impresses the batter as dangerous. The pitcher who wears
a cool, disdainful smile is liable to provoke the batter so that he
cannot locate the ball. There are all sorts of tricks in this business.”
Then Frank began coaching Jack about his striking, causing him to stand
up and step straight out toward the pitcher with one foot when he swung
at the ball, instead of swinging the foot back and partly behind him,
which is a very bad fault, as it weakens the batter’s position and
spoils his ability to drive out sure hits.
When a shrewd pitcher finds a man is given to stepping back or pulling
away from the plate, he is pretty sure to “keep ’em in close,” which
will drive the batter back right along.
One after another the members of the team came in and took their turn
at bat, and Merriwell’s instructions were obeyed implicitly. All were
surprised by the skill displayed by Dick, and it was the universal
opinion that the boy had the making of a pitcher in him.
Indeed, Dick had accomplished much in the short time he had been at
it; but he was the brother of Frank Merriwell, and the same sort of
perseverance and determination dwelt in his breast.
When Frank was satisfied that Dick had thrown enough, he took the lad
out and went into the box himself.
At this point, before Merry had delivered a ball, several persons
entered the grounds by the gate. One seemed to be an old man with gray
whiskers, while two of the others were Black Elrich and the man who had
first caught the big dog by the collar in the Hotel Metropole.
Elrich was at the head of the party, and he advanced straight toward
the diamond. As he drew near, he loudly said:
“So this is your team, Merriwell? I’m glad I found you here. I’ve
brought Dave Morley, manager of the Reds, along. This is Mr. Morley.”
A short, stout, thick-set man came forward. He had a smooth-shaven face
of the bulldog cast, and he was smoking a black cigar. His first words
were:
“Mr. Merriwell, I see you are a squealer.”