THE ODDS AGAINST YALE.
“No use, Kates,” said Dick soberly. “You’ve got to pitch this game. I
can’t.”
The time for the game with Manhattan to begin had arrived. Yale
Umpty-ten was ready to take the field. The sturdy, bronzed,
healthy-looking visitors were on their bench and ready for the fray.
O’Mora, the first batter, was swinging two heavy clubs, in order to make
one seem lighter when he stepped up to the plate.
Dick had been vainly trying to work the lameness out of his shoulder.
His comrades of the team had watched him anxiously, for on him they
relied. Unless Dick could pitch, they could not believe there was any
chance of defeating the visitors.
But Dick could not pitch. He realized it, and at the last moment he told
Kates to go in. Blessed Jones, captain of the team, heard Merriwell’s
words, and his long, doleful face suddenly looked longer and more
doleful than ever.
“All right, Dick,” he said soberly. “If you can’t, you can’t, and that
settles it. Go ahead, Sam, and do your best.”
“Now, that’s encouraging!” muttered Kates, with a touch of bitterness,
as he turned to Dick. “What show have I, Merriwell? There is not a man
on the team who has any confidence in me.”
Dick seized Sam’s hand, held it with a firm grip, and looked straight
into his eyes as he said:
“I haven’t lost confidence in you, Kates. Do your level best, old
fellow. Do it for my sake—and for Yale.”
“I will!” exclaimed Sam, in a low tone, as he strode out to the
pitcher’s position.
Of the teams dreaded by the Yale freshmen, the one they now faced had
been regarded as among the most dangerous. The Manhattan College lads
always played the game for all there was in it, and fought it out to the
last gasp. There were no quitters among them, and therefore they were
always dangerous.
On the scorers’ books the two teams were recorded as follows:
MANHATTAN FRESHMEN. YALE FRESHMEN.
O’Mora, 2d b. Tucker, ss.
Bestock, cf. Lynch, 1st b.
Hanley, rf. Buckhart, c.
Marone, ss. Claxton, 2d b.
Snaith, 1st b. Jones, lf.
Carney, lf. Spratt, cf.
Halloran, 3d b. Bigelow, rf.
McDougal, c. Fitch, 3d b.
Hogan, p. Kates, p.
Dead silence fell on the assembled spectators as Kates walked into the
box. Sam’s keen ears fancied this silence was broken by a number of
repressed groans. Involuntarily, he flashed a look of resentment toward
his classmates on the seats. Then he threw a few to Mike Lynch, just to
give his wing a last limbering, whirling and facing O’Mora as the umpire
called: “Play.”
Sam’s first ball was far too high. O’Mora grinned and held his bat above
his head in a derisive manner after the ball had passed.
The next one was straight over, and the Manhattan headliner met it with
a sharp, snappy swing. It was a pretty line drive, which whistled past
Kates ere Sam could thrust out a hand for it. With anxiety in his heart,
the pitcher whirled like a flash, making the relieving discovery that
Rob Claxton had seized the ball and clung to it like grim death.
“Clever work, Clax—clever work!” cried Buckhart heartily. “That’s the
way to do it.”
Kates grinned approvingly, and received the ball tossed to him by the
Virginian. O’Mora had started for first, but he turned back, shaking his
head in a disgusted manner.
“Never mind,” called Captain Mike Marone, of the visitors. “That was a
case of horseshoe. Get after him, Bestock! Start us off now!”
Bestock, one of the clever hitters of the visitors, waited until Kates
bent one over, and then nailed it with terrific force.
It was a scorching hot grounder, but, with an electrified sidelong leap,
Tommy Tucker forked the sizzling ball with his bare right hand. Tucker
was whirled round in his tracks with a toplike motion, but managed to
keep his feet, recovered, and sent the ball across to Lynch.
It was a bad throw, and Mike was compelled to leap high into the air to
get the ball. He got it, however, and down upon the sack he dropped,
just in time to secure a put-out.
“More horseshoes!” yelled Marone. “Whose hunch did you rub, old man?”
This question was directed at Lynch, who retorted with a satisfied grin,
but made no answer in words.
Hanley looked dangerous as he squared himself at the plate, poising his
bat over his shoulder. He was a big fellow, and he wielded a heavy club.
He had a reputation as a hard hitter.
Kates was afraid of this man, and, in working desperately to prevent
Hanley from hitting, Sam got himself into a bad hole. One strike and
three balls were called.
“Make ’em be good!” cried Marone. “He can’t put it over!”
After glancing toward the bench, on which sat Merriwell, Kates steadied
himself, and carefully sent over a swift, straight ball. Hanley let it
pass, and the second strike was called.
“That’s the talk, Sammy,” chirped Tucker encouragingly. “Now he’s got to
hit. Make him do it. Don’t let him walk.”
Sam wisely decided to depend on his backing, and quickly whistled over
another straight one.
Hanley smashed it far into the field, but, after an astonishing run,
Captain Jones smothered the ball and held it.
“Well, what do you think of that?” asked Mel Dagett, who was sitting on
the bleachers, between Toleman and Poland. “That’s a good start for us,
isn’t it? We ought to be cheering with the rest of the bunch.”
“It was luck—nothing more,” said Poland. “I don’t wonder Marone is
howling ‘horseshoes.’”
“With that kind of backing, Kates may be able to hold the score down,
don’t you think?” questioned Bern Wolfe, at Toleman’s elbow.
“Never,” answered Bill promptly. “Those Manhattan fellows are not going
to bat the ball right at somebody every time they hit it. Notice every
man did hit it. Kates never can win this game in the world.”
“Between us four,” said Poland, in a low tone, “I don’t believe
Merriwell’s shoulder is as lame as he pretends it is. He’s afraid of
Manhattan, that’s what’s the matter. That was quite a fine and fancy
story about the holdup, but it sounded too fancy for me to believe.”
“Oh, but the police say the story is all right,” snickered Dagett. “Have
you forgotten that Officer Jordan, who arrived on the scene after the
holdup men had escaped, picked up a human finger that had been shot from
one of the ruffians’ hands by the wonderful cowboy, Bradley Buckhart?
Say, I wonder how much those two fellows paid the cops and the reporters
to get such a yarn into the papers?”
“Then you don’t take any stock in that holdup story?” questioned Wolfe
quickly.
“I don’t,” answered Dagett. “Do you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bern. “It doesn’t seem to me that the yarn
can be wholly a fake.”
“Why not?” questioned Poland.
“I should fancy some one would expose the deception.”
“I don’t know whether it’s a fake or not,” said Toleman, “but I agree
with Jim in thinking Merriwell has a case of cold feet, and is getting
out of pitching this game by pretending his shoulder is lame. It’s an
outrage to shove Kates in there to-day. Manhattan has Hogan, their very
best pitcher, against us. He’s on the slab now. Watch him. Note what he
does to our boys.”
“Our boys! He! he! he!” scoffed Dagett. “Do you mean Mike Lynch? I
suppose you’re dead stuck on Mike now that he’s become a Merriwellite?
Yah! He makes me sick! What do you think of a fellow like him posing as
the soul of generosity and paying other fellows’ debts? I don’t blame
Ditson for taking advantage of his attempt to fool people, but I guess
we all know the kind of a fellow Lynch is.”
“By the way, Wolfe,” questioned Toleman, “where is Ditson? Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” answered Bern. “I haven’t seen him to-day.”
But Wolfe lied. He had seen Duncan, and he believed he knew what the
fellow was doing that very hour. Both Ditson and Wolfe felt that they
were hovering over a volcano that might burst forth any moment. They
were frightened, and had agreed that they must take certain precautions
to protect themselves.
Hogan now opened up on Tommy Tucker, who was the first batter for Yale.
The visiting pitcher had a great assortment of shoots and benders which
seemed too much for Tommy to fathom. As a result, Tucker slashed the air
twice, fouled a couple of times, and then lifted a little pop-fly which
Halloran gathered in.
Mike Lynch looked grim enough as he strode forth to the plate. He had
been placed second on the batting order because of his ability as a
hitter. Realizing, however, that he was not a popular man in his own
class, Mike now seemed distressingly self-conscious, and, as a result,
he fell an easy victim to the wiles of Hogan, who struck him out.
Brad Buckhart did little better than the two who had preceded him. He
hit the ball, and, for a moment, it seemed that he had popped out a
“Texas Leaguer.” But the infielders of the visiting team could cover
lots of territory, and cover it in a hurry. Both Marone and O’Mora went
after Brad’s ball.
“I’ll take it!” yelled O’Mora. And he caught it beautifully while
running at full speed, with his face toward the outfield.
While the little crowd of visiting rooters were cheering this play,
Wolfe espied Duncan Ditson, who was looking over the crowd in search of
Bern. Immediately Wolfe waved his cap at Duncan, who clambered up over
the seats and found room at the side of his fellow conspirator.
“Well, how did you succeed?” whispered Bern, under cover of the noise.
“I succeeded,” answered Duncan grimly. “I had to.”
“You raised the money?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I pawned my sister’s watch and rings.”
“Did she let you have them?”
“I took them. Couldn’t wait to ask her in an emergency like this. Shea
had to get out of New Haven. The police were looking for a man who had
lost a finger, and they were bound to nab Slugger sooner or later if he
remained in town. He knew it as well as I did. He was willing to go, but
he had to have the money to get away. I put the money in his hands
myself, and he says he’ll be out of the city before midnight.”
“Do you think he can get away? Won’t they nab him? The cops are on the
watch, you know.”
“If they don’t corner him before dark, I think he’ll get away. He’s been
a hobo, and he knows how to bum his passage on freight trains. As soon
as it’s dark he’ll stow himself away aboard some freight bound for New
York or Boston. If he’s not caught to-day, there’s every prospect that
he’ll not be caught at all. I’m not going to worry about it any more.
How’s the game going?”