Fardale field was clothed in gloom. The only bright spot was the stand
occupied by the Franklin rooters, and they were certainly making things
lively in that quarter.
The great game was on, but as far as Fardale’s chances were concerned,
it seemed to be all off. Inning after inning had run along, and time
after time Fardale had been saved from disgrace only by mere good luck.
As it was, the eighth inning had started with the score four to one in
favor of Franklin. And Peters, the Franklin pitcher, had tightened up
after the first inning, and was invincible.
Randall, pitching for Fardale, had started out strong. In the fifth he
had let in a run, and in the sixth his poor support had sent him up in
the air. For Fardale had certainly put a poor team in the field, with
substitutes behind the bat, on first, and in the pitcher’s box.
Even so, Randall might have held Franklin had his own men been able to
hit the swift curves of Peters. Once he loosened up, however, Franklin
romped away with the game, and the slaughter was on. All Fardale
could now hope for was to hold down the score, and she was fighting
desperately to that end.
Coach Trayne and Captain Ted Crockett were talking anxiously together
while the Fardale batters were being mowed down in the final half of
the eighth.
“We’re gone completely now,” announced Crockett gloomily. “We’ll get
another chance next inning, but the game’s over.”
“I can’t understand it,” said the coach, in perplexity. “I’ve had no
answers to any of my telegrams from Chip or Billy or Clancy. At noon I
wired the hotel there, and they said that all three had left yesterday.
Nobody knows where they are.”
“Something’s happened to ’em, all right,” said Ted, as a storm of
cheers swept out from the Franklin bleachers, announcing that Peters
had fanned a second man. “Maybe that car of Clancy’s has blown up. Did
you wire Mr. Merriwell?”
“I’ve wired everybody in the country!” cried the coach desperately.
“Nobody knows anything about it. Merry left Carsonville yesterday
morning, with Clan and Billy. That’s all. They’ve dropped completely
out of sight.”
“It’s a rotten shame,” muttered Crockett. “We had to put Randall in,
and they have simply murdered him. The boys are all up in the air, too.”
“Well, hold the score down,” said Coach Trayne, in desperation. “That’s
all we can hope for now.”
Another roar went up from Franklin as Peters fanned the third man.
Villum Kess trotted out to right field in gloomy fashion.
“Ve vos complexicated now,” he said, as Crockett joined him. “Ve make a
losings ven Chip vos gone, yah! Ve vos our feet viped off der earth of,
Ted!”
“We’ll have to hold ’em,” said the captain glumly. “We get one more
chance.”
Randall went into the pitcher’s box amid a storm of cheers from the
Fardale bleachers. The Southerner realized that he had been outclassed,
but he was resolutely trying to hold his self-control.
“All right, Randall!” cried Crockett. “We’re all with you, old man!”
“Yah, ve vos all mit you,” piped up Villum. “But I vish dot Merry vos
mit us, like plazes!”
As the first Franklin man came up, Fardale redoubled its cheers. It was
the first of the ninth. If Franklin could be held to its four runs,
there was still a slim chance that Peters might be pounded in the next
half. But every one admitted that the chance was too slim to be hoped
for. Peters had everything.
The batter fell on Randall’s first ball, and cracked out a neat single.
The next batter tried for a sacrifice, but he was unable even to put
himself out. The ball rolled down to third, and the third baseman made
a wild throw to first. Both men were safe, and the Franklin cheers
redoubled.
It was too much for Randall. In his anger he sent a fast one at the
plate, and Peters himself landed on it. The ball streaked down toward
first, but the unhappy substitute, playing Clancy’s position, muffed
it. By the time he got through booting it around, the bases were
filled, not a man was out, and Franklin seemed fated to run up a
tremendous score.
The next man advanced to the plate with a wide grin at Randall. The
heavy end of Franklin’s batting order was up. At this instant, however,
a shrill yell ascended from the gate.
“Merriwell! Merriwell! Stop the game!”
The yell rose to a roar. Men rose in the bleachers, stamping and waving
their hats. Every one knew of Merriwell’s unexplained absence. Randall
went white, and would have delivered the ball had not the umpire
stopped him.
Across the field careered a dust-white _Hornet_, with three uniformed
figures clinging to it. Ted Crockett turned with a wild yell as Clancy
drew up behind third.
“Get in the game!” he shouted. “Merry, pitch! Take first, Clan! Catch,
Billy!”
A renewed storm of yells swept the field as the sudden shift of players
was comprehended. Randall, white-faced, tried to protest, but Crockett
waved him off the field. The three friends had made shift to don their
uniforms as they rode into town, not without difficulty. Coming through
the village they had heard how the game was going, and had hastened on
to the field.
While they took their positions, and Merry was given a moment to warm
up, the crowd fell silent. Even the Franklin rooters had cheered, for
they were clean sportsmen, but the Fardale fans began to realize that
Merry had arrived too late.
“They can’t do anything now except hold ’em down,” declared Coach
Trayne.
New life had been infused into the team, however. Villum Kess was
capering around in right field trying to stand on his head, and almost
succeeding. The ball was being snapped around the bases in wonderful
fashion. One and all, the team were leaping into action as if the
coming of Merry and his friends had turned the tide.
Yet the score stood four to one, and the bases were filled, there were
none out.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
The Franklin batter stepped into his box. Merry poised himself on the
mound and nodded at Billy’s eager signal.
Then Merry did a strange thing:
He knew that the men behind him had regained confidence, and he
proceeded to show his confidence in them by lobbing over a slow,
straight ball. The batter almost gasped with astonishment, but swung
and took it on the nose.
“Wow!”
The crowd came up on its toes. The ball drove across the field like a
bullet, so quickly that it could hardly be seen what had happened. The
shortstop put out his glove, and the ball struck. Instantly he leaped
to second.
The runners had leaped at the crack of the bat. Touching second, the
shortstop whipped the ball to Clancy. It came straight and true, and
the man on first tried to get back, but too late. Three men had been
retired, in less than twenty seconds from the time the ball was hit!
“Great Scott!” gasped Trayne, watching with bulging eyes. “It’s
incredible!”
The crowd went mad with excitement. Such playing had rarely been seen
on Fardale field since the time of Frank Merriwell, senior. The Fardale
players had moved like clockwork, with such absolute precision that
they had accomplished a triple play before they themselves realized the
fact!
Small wonder that the fans went crazy as the team trotted in. The grand
stand was in bedlam, screaming and shouting and stamping. The bleachers
shrieked that the game was not lost yet, and implored Crockett to send
Merry to bat.
Crockett did not lose his head in the excitement, however. He himself
was up, and he was fairly confident of a hit. As he strode out to the
plate, the uproar died away. After all, Franklin was three runs to the
good, and the case for Fardale looked hopeless.
As it happened, Clancy, Billy Mac, and Chip would come to bat in the
order named.
Crockett fell on the first ball for a clean safety, Clancy walked out
and the Fardale followers greeted him with a storm of yells.
These died into a groan, as Clancy swung twice without result. Peters
was a cool pitcher, and he tried to tease Clancy into a third strike,
but in vain. With three balls, Clancy settled himself for a good one.
It came over--a sharp drop. Clancy chopped at it, and the ball went
sizzling toward third. Instantly Crockett was speeding toward second,
and managed to beat out the ball by an inch. Once more the crowd went
wild with excitement.
“A hit, Billy Mac!”
“Billy Mac to bat!”
“Win the game, Billy!”
Yell after yell pealed across the field, as Billy Mac went forth.
Peters conferred with his catcher, and steadied down his rather
demoralized team, then went back to the box.
Billy looked like easy money. He swung widely at two teasers, and
Franklin began to grin. With the next ball down, however, Billy
suddenly changed his tactics and met it on the nose. The ball sailed
up over second, continued its course beyond reach of the center
fielder, and, before it was retrieved, two men had come in and Billy
was grinning happily from third.
“Four to three! Hurray!”
The band struck into “Fair Fardale” and hundreds of voices picked up
the song and thundered it forth as Merry was seen to step toward the
plate, bat in hand. The chorus rose and shrilled up into a wild scream,
drowning out the Franklin cries. Peters waited, then shot the ball down.
Frank struck--and missed.
Again Peters poised himself. Again he uncurled his slim length and sent
the white sphere sizzling down. Again Merry swung wickedly at it, and
missed.
The song died away and settled into silence. Peters grinned easily,
glanced at Billy at third, and sent another hot one over the plate.
Merry struck. A sharp crack, and the ball began to rise. But the
Franklin outfielders took one look at it, then flung up their gloves
and ran in. It was a home run, and Fardale had won by one run!