THE DOPE WORKS.
In Rockford the dinner hour came at midday, and the island boys ate
heartily, all being in good spirits, for they believed, with Dick on the
slab, there was an excellent prospect of defeating the locals that day.
Being permitted to gorge himself with custard pie, Obediah Tubbs was
unusually jolly and chipper.
An hour later, as Dick was donning his uniform in his room, Buckhart
appeared, having already changed his clothes.
“Pard,” said the Westerner, as he came in and dropped limply on a chair,
“there sure is something the matter with me. Never before felt so blamed
lifeless and inert in all my career.”
“Perhaps you ate too much,” suggested Dick.
“I don’t opine it was that. Never had a square meal take the snap out of
me this way before.”
Merriwell now observed that his friend was unusually pale.
“I hope you’re not sick, Brad!” he quickly exclaimed. “If you should
fall sick now we’d be in a bad hole this afternoon.”
“Oh, I’m not exactly sick,” declared the Texan. “I’m jest weak and done
up. Don’t seem to care a rap whether I play ball or not. It’s a mighty
odd thing for me, and I don’t know what to make of it.”
Never before had Merriwell known his friend to be other than eager and
enthusiastic in regard to a coming game, and this surprising change in
Buckhart was quite enough to alarm the captain of the island team.
“Perhaps you need a little air,” suggested Merriwell. “It’s hot to-day.
A good walk might brace you up.”
“That’s just what I don’t want to take,” said Buckhart. “I feel more
like stretching out somewhere and keeping still.”
Although he was not a little disturbed, Dick said nothing more until he
had finished dressing for the ball field. When he was quite ready he
tucked his favorite glove into his belt, looked around to make sure
Garrett had sent all the bats to the field, and then called Brad to
follow and started for the door.
With his hand on the knob, he paused and looked back.
Brad had not stirred. With a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, he sat
in a listless attitude, apparently quite unconscious of his surroundings
or wrapped in deep thought.
“Come on, Buckhart!” impatiently cried Dick.
Still the other did not move.
Merriwell turned back and stepped quickly to his friend’s side, seizing
him by the shoulder and giving him a shake.
“Come out of that trance! What’s the matter with you?”
Apparently with an effort, the Texan pulled himself together.
“What is it?” he inquired. “Was I asleep? Great horn spoon, I feel
queer! Kind of numb all over!”
“Are you numb?” said Dick. “I should hate to see you go into a game in
this condition. Brace up!”
Thus adjured, Buckhart rose with a great effort to his feet. He brushed
a hand across his eyes, as if trying to wipe away a blurring mist.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Go ahead, partner. I’m with you.”
Although Dick flung the door open and stepped outside for his friend to
follow, Buckhart made a strange miscalculation and ran full against the
edge of the door, which caused him to recoil and very nearly upset him.
“Well, of all things!” gasped Merriwell, as he sprang back into the room
and seized his companion by the arm. “Can’t you see?”
“Sure,” answered Brad; “but that door moved just as I arrived at it. It
certain did, pard?”
“Have you been drinking?” inquired Dick.
“Hold on, Richard Merriwell!” growled the Texan resentfully. “You know I
reside on the sprinkler. I never lap up ardent liquors.”
“Well, this is the first time I ever saw a sober man in your condition.”
Weakly Brad pushed Dick off.
“I am all right,” he muttered grimly, evidently bracing up as much as
possible. “I’ll prove I’m all right.”
He then walked out of the room, and Dick followed, closing and locking
the door.
Once while descending the stairs the Texan stumbled and Dick caught hold
of him, fearing he would lose his footing.
The boys were waiting below, and together the whole team left hurriedly.
In front of the hotel stood Tom Fernald, smoking a cigarette. He watched
them as they came out, and his eyes surveyed Buckhart keenly. He noted
Brad’s pallor and faltering step. He also observed that Dick had hold of
Buckhart’s arm.
“All right,” muttered Fernald to himself. “Ripley did the job. He told
me he saw Buckhart drinking the glass of water into which the powder had
been dropped, but I thought he might be lying. That wild and woolly
young Texan is doped for fair. With him in that condition Fairhaven
stands no show of winning.”
Not one of the boys gave Fernald a glance. They started down the street,
but paused at the first corner, for coming up another street that led to
the water front was a large excursion party, headed by Brick McLane, of
Fairhaven, who shouted at them and waved his hand.
“Here we are!” cried the husky lobsterman. “Here we are, a hundred and
fifty of us right off the island. We’re going to root for our team
to-day.”
It was the expected excursion party from Fairhaven, and at least fifty
of the excursionists belonged to the fair sex.
Fairhaven had adopted Fardale’s colors, red and black. The girls were
bearing tiny red and black banners, while the men and boys had red and
black ribbons knotted to the lapels of their coats. The crowd was strung
out on the sidewalk until it looked to be nearly twice as large as it
really was.
“He! he! he!” snickered Obediah Tubbs. “We’re going ter have some
backers to-day, by Jim! Rockford won’t do all the hollering.”
The face of Earl Gardner flushed with pleasure as he discovered Grace
Garrett in the party.
Raymond Garrett now appeared, and, directed by him, the Fairhaven team
marched toward the ball ground at the head of the excursionists.
“I’ve had a whole section of seats reserved for our crowd,” he explained
to Dick. “I’m going to keep them together to-day. We’ll see if Rockford
makes all the noise.”
“With so many rooters to encourage us, we ought to win,” declared Dick.
“Oh, we’ll win!” laughed Ray. “I feel it in my bones. Lots of
Rockfordites will be poorer and wiser to-night. They are betting all
kinds of money that Rockford takes the game. I hear that Tom Fernald has
put up two or three hundred dollars already, and is looking for bets
now.”
“He didn’t seem to be looking with much eagerness when we left the
hotel,” retorted Dick. “Saw him standing in front of the Corndike all by
himself.”
Merriwell said nothing to Garrett of Buckhart’s peculiar actions, but
during the march to the ball ground he continued to watch Brad closely.
To his relief, the Texan seemed to throw off some of the peculiar stupor
that had attacked him.
When the field was reached and the islanders came pouring in at the
gate, the Rockford spectators greeted them in various ways, some
applauding and some uttering whistles and catcalls.
“They’ve come over to see their great team wiped off the map!” shouted a
boy.
“That’s right!” cried another. “There won’t be anything but a grease
spot left of Fairhaven after this game.”
The local team was already practicing on the field. Dick and his players
assembled at their bench, opening their bat bags and laying out the
bats. Buckhart sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on
his hands. In a hazy way he seemed to watch the practicing players.
“Get up here,” commanded Dick, producing a ball and giving the Westerner
a nudge. “I’m going to toss you a few.”
Brad rose and walked out to catch the ball.
“Going to take them barehanded?” inquired Dick.
Brad glanced at his left hand with an expression of surprise.
“Forgot my mitt!” he muttered. “Where is it?”
One of the boys found the big catching mitt and tossed it to Brad, who
failed to catch it and was struck in the stomach by it.
Dick walked briskly over to the Texan and spoke to him in a low tone.
“Shake yourself together!” he sharply commanded. “Get out of that
trance!”
Evidently Buckhart tried to obey, for he pulled on the mitt and fastened
it, and then made a pretense of liveliness as he got into position.
Dick threw him a few slow ones at first, and Brad handled them, although
there was a deep frown on his face and he seemed under a constant
strain. When Merriwell used more speed the Fairhaven catcher muffed the
ball at intervals.
Tom Fernald had followed the islanders to the field, and he watched
Merriwell and Buckhart a few moments. Having done this, he turned away
and began to look after bets. When he could not find even money, he
seemed willing to give odds, and in several instances he bet two to one
on Rockford.
No one knew how much Dick Merriwell was worried. He sought to conceal
his state of mind from his companions and succeeded in doing so. When he
was seen talking earnestly in a low tone to Buckhart, it was supposed
the two were discussing the signals and speaking of the weak points of
the opposing batters.
Uriah Blackington was again on the ground as manager of the home team,
and his appearance in that capacity apparently gave satisfaction to the
better element in the Rockford crowd.
“It’ll be a struggle of giants to-day—Garrett,” he laughed, approaching
the manager of the island team and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The
critical point in the race for the pennant has been reached. We’re
compelled to take this game. Sorry for you, my boy.”
“Perhaps you’re wasting your sympathy,” returned Ray smilingly. “I see
you have some new men on your team. Evidently you picked up the best men
you could get off Hammerswell’s team which he released.”
“Yes, I mittened onto Torrey and Morrisey. Torrey is in my opinion the
fastest third baseman in this league, and Morrisey is a great
outfielder.”
“Those are not all your new men. I notice you have that Jersey City
battery, Brodie and Kennedy.”
“Sure thing! Going to put them against you to-day. Hammerswell didn’t
give those fellows a fair show. They are itching to demonstrate what
they can do, and they’ll work for their very lives this afternoon.
Really, Garrett, I don’t believe you have one chance in ten of taking
this game. You know yourself that you’ve been lucky. Nothing but luck
can explain the fact that a bunch of boys could keep up the pace in this
league and make all the veterans hustle. Now don’t you believe yourself
that it was luck more than anything else?”
“I do not, Mr. Blackington. It was brains, team work, and determination
to win, combined with remarkable playing on the part of those boys. I
confess that without Merriwell it is quite likely Fairhaven would not be
in her present position. His spirit dominates his team. He rules those
boys with a hand of iron hidden in a glove of velvet.”
Blackington laughed a little at this.
“I fail to see the hand of iron,” he declared. “That’s an excellent
metaphor, Garrett, but I fancy it’s all imagination.”
Fairhaven now took the field for practice, which Dick made sharp and
snappy, keeping every one, with the exception of Buckhart, on the move
and on the _qui vive_ the same as when playing in a game. Not more than
ten minutes were spent in this practice. It began with a snap and ended
with a snap, every player stopping and starting for the bench at a
signal given by their captain.
The umpire walked onto the field and the home team trotted out.
The game was about to begin.
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