WINNING THE PENNANT.
Owen Bold was the first batter to face the Maplewood pitcher in the last
half of the ninth inning. After two balls had been called, Bold hit a
savage liner in the direction of Connor, who was playing at short.
Connor made a sidelong leap and caught the ball with his bare right
hand.
It was a startling play, but it caused many of the spectators to groan
with dismay.
“Robbery!” muttered Bold as he turned back toward the bench. “That was a
clean hit in nine cases out of ten. He didn’t know he had it.”
Billy Bradley followed Bold, and he felt his nerves quiver under the
strain.
“Great codfish, do hit it out!” implored Uncle Gid Sniffmore. “We’ve got
ter have this game, boys.”
Bradley responded by smashing a hot liner toward Dillard, who made a
beautiful stop and snapped the ball to Hunston, on first.
Bradley was out.
There was another groan from the spectators.
“It’s all over!” shouted Hunston. “We’ve taken a scalp, boys!”
“Not yet!” grated Brad Buckhart, as he picked out his pet bat and strode
toward the plate. “I opine I’ll try to put up some sort of an argument
with you.”
Bretton was confident now—in fact, he was too confident. Feeling sure he
had the game in his hands, he gave the Texan a swift one over the
outside corner.
It was just where Brad wanted it, and he lashed out a beautiful single.
An instant later there was a fearful uproar on the field, for Dick
Merriwell was seen advancing toward the plate. The stonecutters
thundered their applause, while bats, handkerchiefs, and flags waved
everywhere.
“Enough to rattle any batter,” muttered Benton Hammerswell.
The pitcher waited until the shouting crowd became quieter. Then he put
over a swift inshoot, which Dick missed.
“One strike!” cried the umpire.
“Get him, Bretton—get him!” cried Hunston.
Bretton tried a wide out, and a ball was called.
Then he whistled over another one, and again Dick missed it cleanly.
Once more the crowd groaned.
At this moment several persons who had reached the ground pushed through
the crowd and appeared in view back of the ropes. Three of them were
lusty-lunged chaps, for they gave a Yale cheer that surprised the crowd
and caused almost every one to turn in their direction.
In the greatest amazement, Bart Hodge started up from the Fairhaven
bench, crying:
“Frank Merriwell! Am I dreaming?”
It was Frank, accompanied by Browning, Rattleton, Elsie, Inza, and the
others from the yacht _Sachem_.
Now, although that Yale cheer had caused so many to look toward the
newcomers, even though Dick heard it and recognized his brother’s voice,
the boy with the bat did not flicker an eyelash. Perhaps he was the most
astounded and delighted person on that field, yet not a muscle of his
face changed. With the gaze of a hawk he watched Bretton, fearing if he
turned for a single instant the Maplewood pitcher would put a straight
one over the base.
Perhaps never before had Dick’s nerves been tested under such
circumstances. Had Frank and his friends known just how this game stood
and how critical it was at that moment, beyond question they would have
remained silent, fearing to unnerve the boy at bat.
Bretton was a sharp chap, and he heard Hodge shouting the name of Frank
Merriwell. Instantly he decided that Dick Merriwell would be somewhat
unmanned, and therefore he sent over a straight ball with all the speed
he could command.
Dick met it squarely on the trade-mark.
Away sailed the ball—away over centre-field fence. It was into the frog
pond, and batted to the extremity, at that.
“It’s a home run!” shouted Brick McLane.
Round the bases sped Brad Buckhart, and after him came the boy who had
made this wonderful hit at such a critical moment.
Through the mire of the frog pond splashed the fellow in search of the
ball. He found it and turned to throw it into the field. He did not
possess the wonderful throwing arm of Chip Jolliby, and therefore he was
compelled to throw to Dillard, the second baseman. Even had the fielder
been able to line the ball to the plate, he could not have stopped the
winning run, for when Dillard whirled with the sphere in his hand he saw
Merriwell crossing the plate.
How Uncle Gid Sniffmore ever got down from the seats and rushed onto the
field in advance of the crowd forever remained a mystery in Fairhaven.
In some manner the old man made the descent, and, when those roaring
stonecutters picked Dick Merriwell up and bore him triumphantly around
on their shoulders, Uncle Gid marched in advance, waving his cane and
dancing like a frolicsome boy.
No wonder Frank Merriwell stood with a mist in his eyes watching the
spectacle. No wonder he gripped the arm of Browning, and, thrilled with
satisfaction, cried in the big fellow’s ear:
“That’s Dick—Dick, my brother!”
* * * * *
It was in the fifth inning of the second game that a message from
Rockford reached the ball ground in Fairhaven telling the players there
that Seaslope had won her final game of the season. Having heard this
report, Tom Fernald hastened round to the Maplewood bench, where Benton
Hammerswell sat with the scorer and Bretton, the pitcher of the first
game.
Fernald betrayed his anxiety in his face. In spite of his reputation as
a “good loser,” Fernald was worried and distressed now.
“Say, Hammerswell, this thing is getting pretty desperate,” observed the
Rockford man as he took a seat at Benton’s side.
“That’s right,” nodded the Maplewood manager grimly. “Our boys can’t
seem to hit Merriwell at all. He’s pitching in amazing form. The
presence of his brother seems to inspire him. It’s true they haven’t
been able to score on Slocum thus far; but twice we have prevented it by
good luck rather than good playing. They have a runner on third now and
only one out. I am afraid they are going to get a start right here.”
“If you lose this game do you know what the result will be?” asked
Fernald. “Do you know where it will land Fairhaven?”
“Why, I am not sure——”
“But I am sure. I have just heard from Rockford. Seaslope won the game
to-day. Unless you take this game from Fairhaven, the team here wins the
pennant and you land at the bottom. A little while ago you were
confident of winning all your bets. It begins to look now as if you
might lose them all.”
Slowly Hammerswell removed the half-smoked cigar from his lips. It
quivered a little in his fingers. Fernald saw this, and knew how the
strain was telling on the Maplewood man.
“Win or lose,” muttered the schemer, “I have done everything in my power
to come out ahead. It’s impossible to play anything underhand here
to-day. This crowd wouldn’t stand for it. Those stonecutters would lynch
a crooked umpire, and they’d mob a player who did any dirty work on the
field. I hope to win this game on its merits, but there’s no telling
what may happen.”
“I know what will happen if you lose,” said Fernald bitterly. “I will
get it in the neck. I will be down to hard pan. It will be a case of
hustle for me in the future. Hang it all! Hammerswell, I had a
comfortable little roll when the baseball season opened this year, but
it will be wiped out if you don’t carry off this game.”
Hammerswell laughed harshly and bitterly.
“You’ll be no worse off than I will,” he muttered. “We’ll both be in the
same boat. Ha, look at that! By George! it’s good for a run. Too bad!
They’re going to score!”
The batter had driven a liner toward left field, and the runner on third
unhesitatingly started toward the plate.
“Watch! watch!” exclaimed Fernald. “Halligan is after it.”
“He can’t get it,” said Hammerswell.
But the next moment he sprang up with a cry of satisfaction and relief,
for Halligan had leaped into the air and captured the ball with one
hand.
Immediately the Maplewood left fielder threw to Lumley at third, making
a double play, as the base runner was unable to get back to the bag in
time.
“Great stuff!” breathed Tom Fernald, in untold relief. “That kept them
from scoring.”
“It did,” nodded Hammerswell, sitting down again; “but once more it was
a piece of luck for us. We can’t depend wholly on luck.”
“Push your team now,” urged Fernald. “Make them get into this thing and
win.”
Once more Dick Merriwell walked into the box, his eye clear, his
determination firm and unshaken. Connor was the first man to face him.
Young Merriwell had found Connor a difficult hitter to deceive, but he
now resolved to use his cleverest curves on the Maplewood shortstop.
Opening with the jump ball, he caused Connor to lift a foul over
Buckhart’s head, although Brad was unable to get back in time to catch
it.
The Texan called for the combination ball, and Dick nodded.
Even though this remarkable curve was used, Connor again touched the
ball. This time it was the slightest sort of a foul tip, but the ball
was slightly deflected, and struck Buckhart on the end of his right
thumb.
When Brad stooped to pick up the ball, which had fallen to the ground,
he noticed that his thumb had been put out of joint and was split.
The umpire called time while Buckhart’s injury was examined by a doctor,
who pulled the thumb into place and dressed it.
“You can do no more catching to-day,” said the doctor.
“Don’t you believe it, doc!” exclaimed the plucky Texan. “I opine I will
stay right under the stick and finish the game.”
Nor could Buckhart be persuaded by any one to retire from the game. For
all of his injury, he returned to his position.
Now, however, Dick felt that he must consider Brad’s condition, and in
doing this he gave Connor a ball which the fellow hit and sent flying
along the ground between first and second for a single.
Halligan followed with a scratch hit, and the bases were filled when
Bold permitted Lumley’s hot grounder to get past him.
It was a time of great anxiety, as the game was drawing near its close,
seven innings having been agreed upon in advance.
“Too bad that catcher got his bum thusted—I mean his thumb busted,”
spluttered Harry Rattleton. “Dick hasn’t dared let his wing out since
then.”
Bart Hodge had joined Merriwell’s party, and he now seized Merry by the
arm, eagerly panting:
“What do you think, Frank—had I not better offer to go into that game?
Hadn’t I better take Buckhart’s place? Dick can’t pitch to Buckhart now.
You can see he’s afraid to let himself out. Don’t you think I’d better
go in?”
Merriwell shook his head.
“No, Hodge,” he said. “Let them fight their own battle. Let them win or
lose with their own team. Keep out of it.”
“Oh, I am sorry you won’t let Bart go!” almost sobbed Elsie Bellwood. “I
know they are going to lose unless some one else goes in to catch.”
“Frank is right,” declared Inza. “Let Dick win or lose without
assistance from outsiders.”
“But everything depends on this game!” palpitated Elsie. “I just heard a
man back of us say that Fairhaven would win the pennant if it could get
this game. Why, it seems to me that both Frank and Bart might go into
the game to save it. These men near us have been telling how the manager
of the other team paid two great pitchers to come down here and pitch
this game to-day. They say he had intended to put his professional
pitchers in under false names, but people found out who they were, and
he gave up trying to fool any one that way. If he could do such things,
why couldn’t Dick have his friends help him?”
“Because I had rather he would depend on himself and his own team,” said
Merry. “If he loses this game, I understand that all the teams in the
league will be tied, and he will have still another chance to fight for
the pennant. If he wins without any of our assistance, he will deserve
all the praise and glory he’ll receive.”
“But oh! oh!” cried Elsie, “he can’t win now! Just look at that! It’s a
home run, Frank!”
Dillard had smashed the ball hard and fair, lifting it over the
centre-field rail.
Over that rail Chip Jolliby went flying in an endeavor to get under the
ball. He was not successful, but he secured it and returned it to the
diamond in time to stop Dillard at third base. Nevertheless, Connor,
Halligan, and Lumley had all scored.
For the first time during the game the cloud lifted from Benton
Hammerswell’s face. He felt Tom Fernald slap him on the shoulder, and
heard Fernald laughingly cry in his ear:
“That settles it, Hammerswell! Slocum is the man to hold them down after
that. Only six more Fairhaven batters to be retired and the game is
yours. We will both win our bets.”
“I believe we will,” nodded Hammerswell.
Brad Buckhart called Dick and stepped down a little in front of the home
plate to meet him.
“Look here, pard,” said the Westerner, “what are you doing? You’ve been
easing up. Are you trying to give these fellows this game? Just slam the
ball over as speedy as you like. Don’t worry about me. I don’t give a
rap if I lose that old thumb. I will hold them, never fear.”
“All right,” said Dick. “You will get all the speed you want after this,
Brad.”
“That’s the stuff!” nodded Buckhart as he turned and retired to his
position.
Brad did get all the speed he could handle, but he handled the ball
amazingly well, considering his injury. Farrell fell before Dick’s
clever pitching, while Garvin was easily thrown out at first, after
batting a grounder to Bradley.
Although the Maplewood players implored Slocum to get a hit and bring
Dillard home, Dick caused the pitcher to go after three sharp shoots,
all of which were smothered in Buckhart’s big mit.
Benton Hammerswell implored Slocum to hold Fairhaven down, and the
pitcher promised to do so. He was unequal to the task, however, for with
the head of the batting list up, Gardner led off with a savage swat,
while Bold lifted a safe one into the field, and Bradley brought them
both home with a whistler that went clean to the right-field fence.
Billy tried to stretch a handsome two-bagger into a three-base hit, and
was thrown out at third.
Buckhart lifted a high foul, which was captured by Hunston.
Dick Merriwell was cheered as he walked to the plate, and he responded
by getting a clean single. He then stole second on the first ball
pitched, but died there, for Jolliby put up a fly that was caught.
Once more, in the first of the seventh, Dick pitched in his finest form,
and before him the batters fell in order.
Fairhaven now had its final turn at bat.
With two strikes called on him, big Bob dropped the ball over the fence
and easily reached third, while two fielders were searching for the
sphere.
Although he might have trotted home, the big fellow stopped at third at
the command of Dick, who had raced down to the coaching line.
“It would tie the score, Dick!” grunted Singleton, in astonishment.
“We will win this game right here,” said Merriwell. “Stay where you are.
One run will tie, but two will win. Let’s worry that pitcher.”
Already Slocum was worried. The fact that Singleton had remained on
third had annoyed him. Nevertheless, he deceived Tubbs, who hit a weak
one into the diamond and was thrown out. Smart struck out quickly, and
it began to appear as if Dick had made a bad mistake in stopping
Singleton at third.
Gardner came to bat, a grim look on his face. He hit a hot one to
Connor, who fumbled it.
Earl was a great sprinter, and by the time Connor picked up the ball it
was seen that Gardner could reach first in safety.
Then the Maplewood shortstop threw swiftly to the plate to catch
Singleton, who was going home.
It was a bad throw.
The ball struck Garvin’s mitt as the catcher reached for it and bounded
off.
Gardner had crossed first, and he heard the coacher yelling for him to
take second. Garvin leaped for the ball, caught it up, and threw to
Dillard.
It was another bad throw, and the ball went into centre field.
“Third, Earl—third!” cried Dick, making signals to the runner.
Gardner kept on toward third.
Mole secured the ball, which was swiftly thrown to Lumley. It struck the
ground and took a bad bound over Lumley’s shoulder.
“Home!” shouted Dick as Gardner came tearing toward third.
Then the wildly excited crowd saw Earl cross third base and go scooting
toward the plate.
The ball had struck a post to which the rope was tied that held the
crowd back. Lumley secured it and threw to Garvin. The throw was a
trifle high, and Gardner made a beautiful slide, his hand reaching the
plate an instant before he was tagged by Garvin.
“Safe!” yelled the umpire.
Pandemonium broke loose, for Fairhaven had thus won the game and the
pennant in the Trolley League.
There was a celebration in Fairhaven that night, and it was one long to
be remembered. The whole town seemed ablaze with red fire and alive with
people, who marched up and down the streets, blowing horns, ringing cow
bells, shooting off pistols, and singing, and cheering. The Central
Hotel was ablaze with light. In front of it speeches were delivered by
several persons; but the crowd was not satisfied until Dick Merriwell
appeared on the steps. They kept calling for him, and at last he was
pushed forward. The moment they caught sight of him they started to
cheer, but in advance of that cheering Brick McLane was heard roaring:
“There’s the boy that done it! He’s the kid Benton Hammerswell kicked
out of Maplewood—him and his ball team that won the pennant right here
for Fairhaven to-day! Where is Hammerswell now? Why didn’t he wait and
see the fun to-night?”
After the cheering had subsided somewhat, old Uncle Gid Sniffmore
suddenly climbed to the shoulders of Abner Turner and waved his cane in
the air, shrilly crying:
“Do you want ter know where Benton Hammerswell is? Well, he’s what they
call a dead one! He won’t cut no ice round these parts arter this!
Folks, I’m mighty glad I let them boys have my field! If they’ll come
back here next year they can have every dratted thing I own on this
island!”
“Hurrah for Uncle Gid!” shouted the laughing boys.
Frank and his friends were enjoying all this. They were gathered in a
little group on the veranda of the hotel. Merry felt a warm hand press
his, and in his ear Inza whispered:
“Aren’t you proud of Dick?”
“Proud of him!” he exclaimed. “How can I help being?”
The next issue of the Rockford _Star_ contained an account of the final
games in the league series, and likewise the fielding and batting
averages of all the players in the league. There was also a high eulogy
of Dick Merriwell and praise for his companions, who had aided him in
winning the pennant for Fairhaven. For once, at least, the _Star_ was
fair and impartial. The final standing of the teams was given as
follows:
Played. Won. Lost. Per C.
Fairhaven 46 24 22 .522
Rockford 46 23 23 .500
Seaslope 46 23 23 .500
Maplewood 46 22 24 .478
Honesty and true manhood had triumphed and received their well-merited
reward.
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