Carsonville was emptying itself.
Every person in town, young and old, was a baseball enthusiast. The
grand stand and bleachers of the club grounds were invariably crowded
every Saturday. But on this one Saturday it seemed as though the town
had gone crazy over the game.
So, after a fashion, it had. Despite its support of the Clippers,
Carsonville turned out to see baseball, rather than to see the Clippers
play. It loved the game for itself. Down underneath the surface,
however, it cherished a warm dislike for the Clippers and their captain.
This dislike had been, perforce, hidden, for fear of antagonizing the
autocrat of Carsonville. When the home team had been playing, all
personalities had been forgotten in the game itself. On such occasions,
even Bully Carson had become popular for the moment, if he won a game.
It was quite different on this Saturday, however. The Carsons had been
defied, and when the crowd had streamed into the park, it forgot all
about its fear of Colonel Carson’s power.
“I hope them Clippers get trounced! I hope Bully Carson gets knocked
out of the box!” cried old Abner Powell, on whose forty acres the
colonel held a heavy mortgage.
“So do I! Hurray for the Clippings!” yelled the teller of the
Carsonville bank.
“Here’s where the colonel gets took down!” shouted the Carsons’ hired
man.
Every one had forgotten their fears, under the magic influence of the
ball park. And every one had raised the price of a seat. By general
consent, it was the largest crowd that the Carsonville park had ever
held.
Every man on the two teams was known personally to the fans, except
Merriwell and Clancy. Even they were known by reputation, though few
of the townsfolk had dared to show support by watching the Clippings
practice.
The line-up of the two teams was announced that morning by bulletin:
CLIPPINGS.
McCarthy, 3d b.
Nippen, c. f.
Clancy, 1st b.
Merriwell, p.
McQuade, c.
Spaulding, 2d b.
Moore, l. f.
Henderson, r. f.
Newton, ss.
CLIPPERS.
Fletcher, c.
Burkett, 1st b.
Bangs, 3d b.
Ironton, ss.
Johnson, r. f.
Murray, 2d b.
Carson, p.
Runge, l. f.
Merrell, c. f.
The diamond was in perfect condition, its caretaker having spent all
morning getting it in shape. Every line was freshly marked, every inch
carefully raked free of hindrances. The very sight of it was a joy to
the fans, empty though it stood.
And it was joy to Merriwell and Clancy, also, when they arrived at
the clubhouse beneath the grand stand. Both had been too busy to look
at the place, but they were instantly delighted by it. Meantime, the
_Hornet_ proceeded around to the field with Mrs. McQuade and Jim
Spaulding’s young brother.
“It’s a peach of a place, Chip!” cried the red-haired chap.
“Yes--look at that diamond! I don’t remember when I’ve seen a better
cared-for place.”
Merry continued his inspection as the rest of his team poured in to
dress. There were bleachers behind first and third, all well filled,
and the only symptom of neglect was in the high board fence. Directly
behind second, in the center fielder’s territory, there was a strip of
fence ten feet wide that had been leveled. This, it appeared, had been
cut out to erect a large score board, but there had been delay in the
shipment of materials, and the gap was unfilled.
Billy Mac pointed to the river, which ran about a hundred yards behind
the fence.
“No home runs in this field,” he said, “unless the ball goes into the
river. You see, the diamond inclosure is a little small, Chip. Outside
of the fence it’s marshy, and it would have cost a lot to fill in. So
they compromised on that ground rule. If the ball goes into the river,
it’s a home run. It’s never yet gone in, though.”
“Queer kind of ground rule,” growled Clancy. “But there’s no accounting
for tastes, so let’s try to put the ball in the water, fellows!”
“We’l-l-l try,” piped Chub resolutely. “When do we practice?”
“Right now,” exclaimed Frank. “We’re a little early, so we’ll get to
work and let the Clippers howl, if they want to.”
When the Clippings walked out, they were greeted by a long yell from
the fans. Then there rose a buzz of voices as the players trotted out
to their places, and Merry began to drive hot ones along the infield.
Every one was wondering how the home talent would show up. No sooner
had the ball begun to snap around the bases than shout after shout
pealed up. Despite their rare and wonderful uniforms, the Clippings
showed form!
Even Frank was surprised. On the level diamond his team proved that
they could do something, after all. They went after the ball with
ginger, and the way they snapped it up was astonishing.
The Clippers now produced themselves, and promptly spread out behind
the foul lines to inspect their opponents. They delivered themselves
of comments, which were audible over most of the field.
“Look at the uniforms!” yelled Squint Fletcher. “They used them kind
fifty years ago! Pipe the Irish third baseman! Wow!”
“Who’s that scrubby runt playin’ short?” cried Ironton, waving his
fists. “Wait till I land on him!”
“I’l-l-l show you!” chirped Newton angrily. “Wait til-l-l----”
“Listen to him!” cried Ironton. “Wow! He talks like a washing machine!”
Even the crowd laughed at that, for every one knew Chub. The little
fellow lost his temper, and sent the ball far over third.
“They’re easy,” commented Bully, in contempt. “We got their goat
already. You watch when that Merriwell gets up to the plate. I’ll lam
him in the head.”
“You’d better try it!” retorted Clancy heatedly. Merry signed to him to
walk up toward the box, with Chub.
“You fellows keep quiet,” he said. “Pass the word around not to give
any back talk unnecessarily. First thing we know, this will be a
free-for-all, and we have to avoid that if possible.”
The Clippings tried to restrain themselves, but it was hard work for
them to keep from answering the taunts that poured in from Bully
Carson’s men. At length, Frank signed to his team, and they trotted
in. The Clippers spread out on the field, and began to amuse themselves
with threats of what they would do to their opponents, while they
tossed the ball around.
In Colonel Carson’s private box, square in the center of the grand
stand, sat the colonel and his new acquaintance, John Smith. The latter
had accepted the proffered seat gratefully, though he refused the
proffered stogies, pleading that his health did not permit smoking.
As the Clippings came in to their bench, they looked up and saw the
stranger.
“There’s your scout, Dan,” chuckled Billy. “Only it looks like he was
friends with the wrong side.”
The stranger waved a hand at them.
“Go in and win!” he cried. “You’ve got ’em licked, Merriwell!”
“You bet!” returned Clancy quickly. “Just watch our smoke, Whiskers!”
The stranger’s white teeth flashed through his beard, and he turned his
attention to the Clippers as they fell to work.
“They seem to do better than they did yesterday,” he remarked suddenly.
Colonel Carson leaned back and grinned complacently.
“I reckon they slept well last night, Smith,” he drawled. “Any team is
liable to an off day, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Smith sharply. “It looks to me as if you had
let me in for a bit of sharp practice, Carson.”
“Sport is sport,” observed the colonel, with a grin. “You risks your
money, and you takes your chance.”
“I’ve a good mind to call the bet off!”
“No, ye don’t! The constable’s down keepin’ order in the bleachers, and
you can’t locate him ’fore the game starts if ye want to. ’Sides, I
reckon you ain’t a welsher.”
The stranger allowed himself to be soothed down, and settled himself to
watch the progress of things.
Frank and Bully Carson met with the two umpires, and went over the
ground rule regarding a home run.
“No chance o’ your scrubs gettin’ the ball in the river,” jeered
Carson. “Don’t need to worry over it. Ain’t never been done, anyhow!”
“That’s no sign it can’t be done,” said Frank, with a smile.
A gong rang out. Merry and Carson quickly discussed the question of
outs and ins, while the umpires were announcing the batteries.
“I’d like to git in the box first crack, an’ knock your block off,”
growled Bully. “But I dunno’s I wouldn’t jest as soon knock you out o’
the box. Take your choice.”
“Thanks,” said Merry easily. “Since you’re so kind, I think we’ll give
you a chance to get a home run, Bully. According to the batting order,
I’m afraid you won’t get a crack till the third inning, though.”
Carson, whose name stood seventh on the list, glowered derisively.
“Huh! We’ll prob’bly bat around twice in the first inning, you joke!
You’d better get another pitcher warmin’ up.”
“Come on, Bully,” cried Squint Fletcher. “Leave that poor simp alone!”
No one had any need to hear the umpires’ announcement, and it was
drowned in a roar of cheers as the Clippings went out to their
positions. Colonel Carson glowered and tugged at his goatee, then
smiled as Squint Fletcher advanced to the plate amid a mingling of
hisses and cheers. Squint had his backers, who liked him for his
rough-and-ready tactics.
Indeed, it soon developed that the Clippers were not without friends.
The general sentiment was against them, but there were plenty of
hoodlums and toadies who were willing to cheer them. Also, many farmers
had come in, who were used to yelling for the Clippers.
The umpires took their positions, and Merry whipped over three balls
to Billy. Squint stepped up to the plate, with a sneer, and balanced
himself aggressively. Billy Mac signed for the double shoot.
Frank nodded, took his time, and, amid a wild shriek of delight from
the crowd, delivered the first pitched ball. Squint Fletcher pulled
down his bat--and there was a crack like a pistol shot.
Squint had landed square on Frank Merriwell, junior’s, famous double
shoot!