PERFECT CONTROL.
Following was the batting order when the Merries again faced the Elks:
MERRIES. ELKS.
Ready, 3d b. Kitson, rf.
Morgan, ss. Cronin, 3d b.
Badger, lf. Sparks, cf.
Merriwell, p. Rush, ss.
Hodge, c. Glade, rf.
Gamp, cf. Tinker, 2d b.
Browning, 1st b. Cross, 1st b.
Rattleton, 2d b. Sprowl, c.
Dunnerwurst, rf. Wolfers, p.
The Elks fancied they would have an easy thing with Wolfers in the box.
Still they were anxious to get a safe lead early in the game, and
Lawrence urged them to “jump on” Merriwell without delay.
Of course the Merries were sent to bat first, as this gave the locals
their last opportunity.
Wolfers was chewing gum and grinning when he went into the box. He
looked more than ever like a wolf, yet he seemed to be very
good-natured. The crowd cheered him and he touched his cap in
acknowledgment.
“Good old Bobby!” howled the same big man who had made himself heard so
often at the game with the Cuban Giants. “You’re the boy! This will be a
picnic for you.”
The usual gathering of small boys was to be seen. Spud Bailey was on
hand, and he seemed to be an object of much ridicule.
“Oh, you know er lot erbout baseball!” sneered Freckles, while all the
others laughed. “Mebbe you’ve got it inter dat nut of yourn that them
Merriwell fellers will win dis game?”
“I has,” acknowledged Spud defiantly.
They jeered him.
“You don’t know ernough ter come in w’en it rains,” said Freckles.
“You’ll know more arter ther game. Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter pitch
ther whole of this one.”
“Dey’ll pound him outer der box inside of t’ree innin’s.”
“I know a man dat’s bet two hundrud dollars ter one hundred dat the
Merriwells will win.”
“He’s a bigger fool dan you are! W’y didn’t he go burn his money. He’d
had more fun wid it.”
But Spud was unmoved.
“You wait,” he muttered. “You’ll see.”
Never in their careers had the members of Merriwell’s team been more
determined to win, if possible. All levity was cut out of the early part
of the game. They went at it seriously, earnestly, with heart and soul.
Ready cast aside his flippancy and did his level best to start things
off with a hit. The best he could do was to drive a grounder into the
hands of Cronin, who whistled it across to Cross for an easy out.
Wolfers continued to grin, although he had anticipated, beginning by
showing his ability to strike a man out when he desired.
Morgan fouled several times, finally striking out on a “spit ball,”
which took a wonderfully sharp jump to one side as he swung, nearly
getting away from Sprowl.
“That’s the kind, Bob, old socks!” cried the catcher. “They never can
hit those.”
Badger popped a little one into the air, and the first three batters to
face the wonder from Wisconsin were his victims.
“Now get right after Merriwell, boys,” urged Lawrence, as his players
reached the bench. “Clinch the game at the start, and then take it easy.
Put us into it, Kit.”
Merriwell did not limp as he walked out. His ankle was tightly supported
with a broad leather band. In warming up he had found that his control
was perfect. He could put the ball exactly where he pleased, and he felt
that on this day he would be in his best form. He also felt that he
would need all his skill.
Kitson laughed.
“Just put one over and see me bump it,” he urged.
Frank looked round to make sure every man was in position.
“We’re all behind you, Merry,” assured Rattleton. “Let him mump it a
bile—I mean bump it a mile!”
The first ball pitched looked good to Kitson. It was speedy and quite
high.
Just as the batter slashed at it the ball took a sharp rise, or jump,
and the bat encountered nothing but empty air.
“Stir-r-r-rike—kah one!” came from the umpire.
Spud Bailey seized the first opportunity to rejoice.
“Why didn’t he hit dat?” he cried.
“Oh, wait, wait!” advised Freckles. “Dere’s plenty of time. He’ll hit
der next one he goes after.”
But Freckles was mistaken. The next ball was a wide outdrop, which
Kitson let pass. Then came a high ball that changed into a drop and shot
down past the batter’s shoulders. He had anticipated a drop, and he
tried to hit it, but did not judge it correctly.
“Stir-r-r-rike—kah two!”
Spud didn’t miss his chance to turn on Freckles.
“Shut up!” snapped Freckles. “He’s goin’ ter git a hit!”
Kitson thought so himself. He picked out another that looked good. It
was an inshoot, and it spanked into Bart’s big mitt.
“You’re out!” came from the umpire.
Spud Bailey stood on his head, but Freckles viciously kicked him over.
Kitson shook his head as he walked to the bench.
“He fooled me,” he acknowledged. “Still I should have hit ’em.”
“Never mind,” said Cronin. “I’ll start something.”
Ben Raybold was sitting on the bleachers. He smiled the least bit as he
saw Merry easily dispose of Kitson.
“He seems to be in his best form,” thought the backer of the visitors.
“If so, I’ve won a hundred. I wish I’d made it more.”
The eyes of Bart Hodge were gleaming. He hammered a hole into his big
mitt with his fist.
“Drop ’em into that pocket, Merry, old boy,” he cried. “You know how to
do it.”
“You bet my life he knows how!” cried Dunnerwurst.
“They’re all swelled up over striking you out, Kit,” said Rush.
“It won’t be so easy next time,” declared Kitson. “I’m onto his tricks.”
“Plenty of speed.”
“Oh, yes; but we like speed.”
“Sure. We eat speed. If he keeps burnin’ ’em over, we’ll fall on him
pretty soon and pound him to the four winds.”
Merry remembered Cronin’s weakness. He kept the ball close to the
fellow, and, having both control and speed, found it just as easy to
strike him out.
“Well! well!” cried the big man with the stentorian voice. “What’s the
matter, boys?”
“Get a hit, Sparksie,” urged Rush. “I think I can boost you along.”
“Let him give me some of those swift inshoots,” muttered Sparks.
This, however, Merry declined to do. He kept the ball away from Sparks,
although starting it straight at him at least twice. His outcurve was
wonderfully wide, and it quite bewildered the batter.
Wolfers had ceased to grin. He realized that Merriwell was “showing him
up” in the first inning.
“Oh, well,” he muttered, “a strike-out pitcher isn’t the whole cheese.”
Still he was nettled.
Merry was testing himself. Kitson, Cronin, and Sparks were all batters
of different styles. To mow them down in succession would be a severe
test for any pitcher.
This, however, was what Frank did. Sparks finally succumbed, declining
at the finish to strike at a high straight one, and growling because the
umpire called it a strike, although it was not above his shoulder.
Spud Bailey was overjoyed.
“Now, now, now!” he cried. “I guess you fellers begin ter see I ain’t
such a fool!”
“Oh, he can’t keep dat up,” sneered Freckles. “He’ll go all ter pieces
arter one or two innin’s.”
“Bet you anyt’ing he won’t!” flung back Spud. “You ain’t posted about
him. He’s der greates’ pitcher in der business. I tole yer so, but you
didn’t take no stock in it.”
“I don’t take no stock in it now.”
“You will.”
“Git out!”
“You will,” persisted Spud.
The crowd had been surprised, but it was far from displeased. Having
perfect confidence in Wolfers, it rejoiced because the game promised to
be close and exciting.
“Frank, you have the goods!” said Hodge, as Merry came to the bench.
“Why, I believe you could shoot the ball through a knot hole to-day!”
“My control is pretty good,” nodded Merry.
“Pretty good! It’s marvelous! Can you keep it up?”
“Somehow I think so. I have a feeling that I’ll be able to do just about
what I like with the ball through this game.”
“Then the game is ours,” said Hodge.
Merriwell was the first batter in the second inning.
“Let’s see if I can’t give him a little of the medicine he’s been
handing out,” Wolfers muttered to himself.
He tried his best to fool Merry, but Frank let the first pitch go for a
ball and caught the second one fairly on his bat, lining it out for two
bags.
Wolfers turned green.
To himself he swore savagely.
“I’ll know better than to give him another one like that,” he thought.
Hodge was eager to follow Frank’s example. He forced Wolfers to cut a
corner, and then he hit the ball fair and hard.
It went like a bullet.
Straight into the hands of Rush.
Like a flash Rush snapped it to Tinker, who covered second.
Frank was caught off the bag, not having time to get back, and the Elks
had made a handsome double play.
“Hooray!” bellowed the big man. “That’s the kind of work, boys!”
The crowd cheered, and the play deserved it.
Hodge felt sore.
“That was hard luck!” he exclaimed. “I tried to place that hit, but I
didn’t judge the curve just right.”
Naturally Merry felt somewhat disappointed, but he accepted the result
philosophically, knowing such things were the penalty of fate in
baseball.
Gamp came out not a whit the less resolute and determined. He felt that
it was up to him to do something, and he tried hard, but Wolfers was on
his mettle at last, and he struck Joe out.
“That’s the stuff!” roared the big man. “Now you’re getting into gear,
Robert!”
Then he urged the local players to go in and hammer Frank all over the
lot. Rush was eager to follow this advice. He was too eager, for Merry
led him into putting up a pop fly, which fell into the hands of
Rattleton.
Glade followed and tried a waiting game. Seeing what he was doing, Merry
put two swift ones over the inside corner, and two strikes were called.
Then Glade hit a pretty grounder to Morgan, who made a mess of it,
permitting the Elkton man to reach first.
It was recorded as an error for Dade. Morgan was angry, but Merry
soothed him with a word or two.
“Those things will happen occasionally,” said Frank. “You’ll get the
next one, my boy.”
“You bet I will!” Dade muttered to himself.
Frank took a chance with Glade, making a long swing before delivering
the ball, and then sending it in with great speed.
Glade fancied he saw his opportunity to steal on that swing, and he
tried it.
Few who saw the Elkton man go down from first fancied it would be
possible for Bart to catch him at second.
The ball had been delivered so that it came into the hands of Bart just
right for a quick throw. He waited not a second in making a long swing,
but snapped it with a short-arm movement.
As true as a bullet from a rifle it flew into the hands of Rattles at
second. And it came just right for Harry to put it onto the runner.
Glade saw his danger and tried to slide under, but Rattleton pinned him
fast to the ground.
Once more Spud Bailey stood on his head, and once more Freckles kicked
him over.
The spectators were generous with their applause, for they recognized
the fact that Bart had made a wonderful throw.
“That’s a good whip you have, young fellow,” said the big man.
“Pretty work, Hodge!” smiled Frank. “I thought he would try it. Can’t
fool many of them that way if you keep up that throwing.”
“Oh, they’ll work for this game if they get it!” said Hodge.
“Haw! haw!” laughed Tinker mockingly. “Don’t pat yourself on the back so
soon. The game is young.”
He walked out to hit.
All the Elks were inclined to be sarcastic and mocking, but they were
beginning to realize that it would be no easy thing to run up a safe
score early in the game. The Merries were out to win if such a thing
could be done.
Frank knew Tinker was inclined to bat the ball into the air, and he
pitched with the idea of compelling the fellow to do this. In the end he
succeeded, for the batter put up a slow and easy one to Badger, who
smothered it.
The second inning was over, and neither side had made a run.
“He won’t last,” declared Wolfers. “He’ll take a balloon trip, same as
the other chap did.”
“They never can score off you, Bob,” declared Sprowl.
“Not in a thousand years,” grinned the Elkton pitcher. “It would be a
disgrace.”
Then he went into the box and handed Browning one on which Bruce made a
clean single.
“Stay there, you big duffer!” muttered Wolfers. “You’ll never reach
second.”
He was mistaken, for, although he kept the ball high, Rattleton managed
to bunt, making a beautiful sacrifice.
The wonder from Wisconsin saw that the Merries knew something about
scientific stick work. He braced up and did his prettiest with
Dunnerwurst.
“A hit must get me!” murmured the Dutchman, as he missed the first one
struck at. “Der oppordunity vas all mine. Yah!”
But Wolfers led him into batting a weak one to Cronin, who snapped it
across the diamond.
Dunnerwurst was out.
Cross returned the ball to Cronin, for Browning had dashed toward third.
Browning got a handsome start and he ran like a deer. He slid for the
bag.
Cross tried to block him, but Bruce went round the fellow’s feet and
grabbed a corner of the bag, lying flat on his stomach just out of reach
when the third baseman tried to touch him quickly.
Never could any person unacquainted with the big chap fancy it possible
for him to purloin a bag so handsomely. Cronin was sore with himself for
giving Bruce the opportunity. He had fancied it would be an easy thing
for Cross to return the ball in time to catch the runner, in case the
latter attempted to take third.
Merry was on the coaching line back of third.
“Pretty work, Bruce!” he laughed. “You fooled them. They thought they
had you.”
Ready came out to bat once more.
A signal passed between Wolfers and Sprowl. The latter crouched close
under the bat.
Wolfers put the first ball straight over.
It was a beauty.
Ready swung at it.
Just as he did so something touched his bat lightly, deflecting it the
least bit, and he missed.
Jack turned quickly on Sprowl.
“What are you trying to do?” he demanded, frowning, no trace of levity
in his manner.
“Excuse me,” said the catcher sweetly. “I was a bit too close.”
“Better get back a little.”
Again Wolfers put the ball over the very heart of the pan.
Again Jack’s bat was tapped lightly and deflected.
Ready dropped the end of his bat to the ground and stepped onto the
plate to prevent Wolfers from pitching.
“Mr. Umpire,” he called, “I wish you would watch this catcher. He is
rather careless with his hands.”
“Oh, come off!” cried Sprowl. “Don’t cry baby if you can’t hit a
straight ball. It’s your own fault. Give him another, Bob. He never made
a hit in his life.”
Hodge had seen Wolfers deflect Ready’s bat.
“Play ball!” commanded the umpire.
“Get off that plate, or I’ll put the ball through you!” snarled Wolfers.
“Get off, Jack,” called Hodge. “I’ll watch him. If he does the trick
again, I’ll talk to him a bit.”
Sprowl looked at Bart and laughed.
“You wouldn’t frighten any one,” he said. “Why don’t you fellows play
ball? Are you going to cry baby so early in the game?”
“That’s the talk!” roared the big man. “Make ’em play ball! Of course he
can’t hit Wolfers, and he wants to work his way down to first somehow.”
Few among the spectators had seen Sprowl touch Jack’s bat, and therefore
the crowd was opposed to him. Jeers and catcalls came from every side.
Ready was angry. For once in his life, he had quite lost control of his
temper.
“If you keep it up,” he growled to Sprowl, “something will happen to
you.”
Then he stepped off the plate and Wolfers snapped the ball over like a
flash.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah three!” cried the umpire. “You’re out!”
How the crowd did laugh and jeer at Jack.
“That’s what you get for crying baby!” yelled a shrill voice.
“It will be Mr. Sprowl’s turn to bat in a moment!” said Hodge, as he
picked up the body protector.
Frank heard these words.
“None of that kind of business, Bart,” he said grimly. “It won’t do.
We’re not playing that sort of a game.”
“But are we going to stand for this?”
“We can call the attention of the umpire to it. He’ll have to stop it.”
“He doesn’t seem inclined.”
“We’ll have to make him inclined, then. I think he’s pretty near square,
although it’s likely he sympathized with the locals.”
“Of course he does! We’ve got to fight for our rights, if we get them.”
“That’s true; but we’ll fight on the level. No crookedness. No
trickery.”
So Bart went under the bat feeling rather sore and very anxious to get
even with Sprowl.
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