HITS THAT DID NOT COUNT.
Frank Merriwell made a signal, and his men came trotting in from the
field.
But the eyes of the spectators were on the strangely handsome boy
and the wrinkled old Indian, the latter having his dirty red blanket
wrapped about his shoulders. At the home plate, to which the boy seemed
to lead the Indian, they stopped.
Some boys on the bleachers began to whoop like a whole pack of
redskins. Unheeding everything, Old Joe slowly walked round the rubber
plate, then stopped, extended his hands over it and made some queer
signs, as if he were weaving a spell. A hush had fallen on the curious
crowd.
Finally the aged Indian stooped and solemnly placed the flat of his
hand upon the plate, as if blessing it. This done, he turned, and,
accompanied by the boy, walked toward the bench. Again the urchins
began to whoop, and the crowd laughed.
The umpire appeared and advanced onto the field. The Reds, of course,
had their choice of innings, and they decided to go to bat first.
Merriwell’s men were bunched about their leader, who was speaking to
them in low tones.
“All ready,” called the umpire.
Immediately, the Merries turned and trotted out onto the field once
more, while the first batter of the home team picked out his stick and
advanced toward the plate.
“Light on him right off the reel,” said Dave Morley, who was sitting on
the home bench. “Break his heart in the first inning.”
Frank was in the box, while Bart Hodge adjusted his mitt behind the
plate.
The batting-order of the two teams is here given:
MERRIES. REDS.
Ready, 3b. Jones, 1b.
Carson, ss. Davis, rf.
Browning, 1b. Croaker, 3b.
Gamp, cf. Favor, c.
Hodge, c. Gresham, cf.
Swiftwing, lf. Arata, lf.
Rattleton, 2b. Sawyer, ss.
Carker, rf. Mahoney, 2b.
Merriwell, p. Park, p.
“Play ball!” rang out the voice of the umpire.
Merriwell placed his foot upon the pitcher’s plate and prepared to
deliver the ball. Every man was ready.
Frank was cautious about using speed at first, and he tried Jones on a
slow drop.
Crack! The bat met the ball, and Jones lifted a pretty single just over
the infield, prancing down to first like a long-geared race-horse,
while the crowd gave a shout of satisfaction.
“The very first one!” laughed Morley. “Why, I knew it was a snap!”
“Mr. Umpire,” said Frank quietly, “if that gentleman is going to make
remarks, kindly ask him to leave the players’ bench.”
“That’s right, Morley,” said the umpire, “you will have to keep still
while you are on the bench.”
This caused the crowd to howl derisively, and it seemed that the
Merries had very few friends present.
Davis was ready to strike, and Frank gave him a wide out drop. He let
it pass, and Jones took the opportunity to hustle for second in an
attempt to steal.
Hodge took the ball, did not swing, but seemed to pull his hand just
back to his ear, and then threw to second. It was a quick, easy throw,
and it did not seem that Bart put enough force into it to send the ball
down.
“Slide!” yelled the coacher.
Jones had been running like a deer, for he was the best base-stealer
on the team, as well as the surest hitter. Forward he flung himself,
sliding gracefully along the ground with his hands outstretched.
The ball came into Rattleton’s hands about two feet from the ground,
and Harry had it on the runner when Jones’ hands were yet a foot from
the bag.
“Man is out!” announced the umpire.
A hush fell on the crowd, and then somebody started the clapping, which
was rather generous.
“Say, that catcher can throw!” cried a man on the bleachers. “Bet you
don’t steal many bags on him to-day.”
The first man was out, and the Reds had been taught a lesson they
would not fail to profit by. They had found that Hodge was a beautiful
thrower, so that it was dangerous to try to steal.
“Hard luck, old man,” said several of the players, as Jones came in.
“But he got you, all right.”
“And I thought I had a good start, too,” said Jones. “I’d bet my shirt
I had that bag.”
One ball had been called on Frank. He tried a high one next time, and
another ball was called.
Then Davis fouled, which caused the umpire to call a strike on him.
“Put another in the same place,” invited the batter.
Frank seemed to accommodate him, and Davis cracked it out, driving it
past Carson, who did not touch it.
Another base-hit had been made off Merry.
“That’s two of the five!” exclaimed Elrich, in satisfaction. “When
three more are made I’ll have won one thousand dollars, anyhow.”
Croaker was a heavy hitter. Merry suspected it, and he tried his arts
to pull the fellow, but three balls were called.
Davis had not attempted to steal, for he remembered the fate of the man
ahead of him, and Merry held him close to the bag.
It seemed, however, that Frank was certain to give the next batter a
base on balls. He was forced to put the ball over, which he did.
Mahoney, the captain of the team, had advised the batter to “play
the game,” which prevented him from striking, although he afterward
declared that the ball came sailing over the plate “as big as a house.”
A strike was called. Frank calmly put another in the same place, and it
was another strike.
Croaker gripped his bat. The coachers warned Davis to run, as the
batter would be out on the third strike, anyhow, if the first base was
occupied.
So, as soon as Merriwell drew back his arm, Davis started hard for
second. The ball was a swift high one, but Croaker met it and drove it
out for a single that landed Davis on third.
“Here is where we score a hundred!” cried the coachers. “Oh, say! is
this the wonder we have been hearing about?”
Hodge called Merry in, and said to him, in a low tone:
“Speed up!”
“But----” said Frank.
“No buts,” said Bart.
“Your hand.”
“I’ll hold them.”
“All right.”
Then they returned to their places.
“Down on the first one,” was the advice of the coacher near first.
“With Davis on third, he’ll never throw to second.”
Frank sent in a swift in shoot, having compelled Croaker to keep close
to first. Croaker, however, confident that Bart would not throw to
second, scudded for the bag.
Hodge seemed to throw to Merriwell, and Frank put up his hands, as if
to catch the ball, which had been thrown high.
Seeing Davis had not started from third, Frank did not bring his hands
together, but let the ball pass between them over his head. The ball
struck the ground about ten feet from second and bounded straight into
Harry’s waiting hands.
The runner slid, but Harry touched him out, and then sent the ball
whistling home, for, having seen the ball go over Merry, Davis had
started to score.
Davis had been fooled into clinging close to the base too long. The
trick had worked well, for Hodge had thrown the ball so that Merry
could catch it in case Davis started, but with sufficient force to take
it to second on a long bound, if Merry saw fit to let it go. Had Davis
started, Frank would have caught the ball and cut him off.
Now, although Davis ran as if his life depended on the issue, he could
not get home in time, and Bart was waiting for him with the ball.
“Out second and home!” cried the umpire.
The spectators gasped, for they had been treated to a clever piece of
work that showed them the Merries knew a thing or two about baseball.
Three hits had been made by the first three men at bat, yet the side
had been retired without a run, through the clever work of Hodge,
Merriwell, and Rattleton.
The Reds were disgusted over the result, but Black Elrich said:
“They can’t keep that up, and Merriwell is fruit for the Reds. Every
man can hit him. Two more hits mean a cool thousand for me, and there
are eight innings to make them in.”
“They’re going to get twenty off him,” said Dan Mahoney. “My brother
Pete is the worst hitter in the bunch, but he can lace that fellow all
over the lot.”
On the bleachers Old Joe Crowfoot was grimly smoking his pipe, but by
his side sat an excited boy, whose face was flushed and whose eyes
shone.
“They didn’t get a run, did they, Joe?” asked the boy eagerly.
“Ugh!” grunted the Indian. “Don’t know. White man’s game. Injun don’t
know him.”
“But they did hit the ball,” said Dick, in disappointment. “I didn’t
think Frank would let them do that.”
“He throw um ball pretty quick,” said Joe.
“He’s afraid to do his best, I’m sure,” said Dick. “He’s afraid Hodge
can’t catch it.”
“Hodge he heap big catch,” asserted Crowfoot. “Not afraid of stick when
it swing. Him good.”
“We got out of a bad hole that time, fellows,” said Frank, as the team
gathered at the bench. “If we keep on playing ball like that we’ll win
this game.”
“Those fellows will know better than to chance such takes--take such
chances,” said Rattleton.
“How is your hand, Bart?” asked Merry.
“All right,” said Hodge.
Ready had chosen a bat.
“I’m going to drive the first one over Old Baldy,” he said, with a
motion toward the distant mountains. But he walked up to the plate and
proceeded to strike out on the first three balls pitched.
“Speed!” he said, as he came back to the bench. “Whew! That fellow’s
got it! They didn’t look larger than peas as they came over.”
Carson went out and fouled twice, getting strikes called on him. Then
he drove a short one to the pitcher and was thrown out.
“See if you can’t start the ball rolling, Bruce,” urged Merry.
Browning, however, did not seem much more than half-awake, and he, too,
fell before the speed and sharp curves of Park, making the third man.
Favor took his place at the plate, and Merry faced him in the box.
Frank gave the fellow a high one to start with, but Favor was confident
and hit it safely past Ready.
“Four hits!” counted Elrich exultantly. “One more gives me a thousand.”
Before the ball could be fielded in Favor had reached second and was
safe.
“Everybody hits him!” shouted a voice from the bleachers. “Is this the
great Frank Merriwell?”
Tears of rage came into Dick Merriwell’s eyes, and his hands were
tightly clenched.
“Why doesn’t he use the double-shoot?” panted the boy. “He hasn’t tried
it once.”
Frank was as calm as ever. Gresham, a stout, solid-looking chap,
grinned tauntingly as he took his place to strike. Frank tried to pull
him, but two balls were called. Then Merry put one over the corner, and
Gresham batted it down to Ready.
Jack should have handled the ball, but he did not get it up in time to
cut Gresham off at first. Seeing he was too late, he took no chances of
a wild throw, and did not throw at all.
“Oh, wow! wow!” roared the crowd. “All to pieces! How easy! how easy!”
Hodge was looking black as a thundercloud. The game was not pleasing
him at all. Was it possible Frank has lost some of his skill?
Arata, a stocky young Indian, advanced to the plate. He showed his
teeth to Merry, who gave him a pretty one on the outside corner.
Arata smashed it hard, driving it on a line over Frank’s head.
Like a flash Merriwell shot into the air and pulled down the ball with
one hand. Like a flash he whirled round and threw to Rattleton.
As the bat met the ball, both Favor and Gresham had started to run.
They did not realize Merry had caught the ball until Frank threw to
second.
Rattleton took the throw, touched the bag and drove the ball whistling
to first.
Gresham had stopped and was trying to scramble back to first, but the
ball got there ahead of him, being smothered in Browning’s mitt.
“Batter out!” announced the umpire. “Out second and first!”
It was a triple play!
Dick Merriwell flung his hat into the air, giving a shrill yell of
joy. The yell was taken up by the crowd, for this was the sort of
ball-playing to delight the cranks.
The Merries were fast winning friends.
The shout of applause having subsided, somebody cried:
“Why, you fellows don’t need a pitcher! You can play the game with any
kind of a man in the box!”
Mahoney, the captain of the Reds, was sore, but he told his men that it
would not happen again in a thousand years.
Gamp was the first hitter of the Merries, and the long youth from New
Hampshire drove the ball out to Gresham, who made a very pretty catch.
Hodge hit savagely, but his temper was not right to connect with Park’s
curves, and he fanned.
Then came Swiftwing. Again the collection of boys whooped like a lot
of Indians from the bleachers. The Indian put up an infield fly, and
was out.
“Give us the double-shoot at your best speed, Merriwell,” said Hodge,
in a low tone. “Just show these chumps you can pitch a little.”
“All right,” nodded Frank; “if you can handle it with that hand, you
shall have it.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Bart.
“Now,” said Dan Mahoney, “you’ll see my brother get a hit.”
“I hope so,” said Elrich, “for it wins the first thousand for me.”
Mahoney came to the plate. He had seen others hitting Frank, and
he felt fully confident he could do so. Merry gave him a swift
double-shoot to start with, and he fanned, gasped, rubbed his eyes and
looked amazed.
“Do that again,” he invited.
Merry did, and again he fanned.
The third one was a slow drop that dragged him, and he did not hit it.
Frank had struck out his first man.
Park was not much of a hitter, and Merry found him easy, striking him
out quite as easy as he had Mahoney.
“Those are the weak men!” cried somebody. “Now, let’s see you do it to
Jones.”
Being thus invited, Frank sent in his prettiest double-shoot, and Jones
missed the first one.
“Hello!” muttered Jones, as he gripped the bat. “That was a queer one.
If I didn’t know better, I should say----”
He did not mutter what he should say, for Frank was ready and another
came buzzing past, only the curves were reversed.
Again Jones bit at it and failed to connect.
“Two strikes!” called the umpire.
“Oh, he’s doing it now!” breathed Dick Merriwell, in delight.
Every ball hurt Bart’s hand, but he held them all and showed no sign of
pain.
Jones was mad and surprised, which made him easy for the third
double-shoot, and he, like the two before him, struck out.
Not one of the three men had even fouled the ball.
“Well, well!” roared a spectator. “It seems that you’ve got a pitcher
there, after all!”
“Thanks, most astute sir,” chirped Ready, doffing his cap and bowing.
“He hasn’t begun to pitch yet. He’s just getting warmed up.”