BASEBALL.
There was a crush in the rear end of the smoker. A crowd had gathered
there, and the lads were singing, shouting, laughing and making merry in
various ways.
Some fellows were sitting on the backs of the seats. The trainmen could
not drive them down. It was useless to try with such a set of lads.
Danny Griswold was astride the shoulders of Dismal Jones, who was the
only solemn-looking man in the car. Occasionally Jones would "break out"
in his peculiar camp-meeting revivalist's style and would deliver
fragments of a sermon on the frivolous things of the world. Each time he
was quickly suppressed, however.
Into the midst of this jolly crowd came a lad whose face was flushed and
whose eyes were gleaming strangely. His lips curled back over his set
teeth, and he seemed to quiver with a strange eagerness.
"Let me through!" he growled, forcing his way along. "There is a fellow
here I want to see."
There was something in his voice that caused them to give him room to
advance till he was standing directly in front of Frank Merriwell. Then
his hands clinched, and, as he tried to speak, he choked with passion,
so that words failed him.
A sudden hush came over the throng, for they saw that there was trouble
impending.
"It's Yates!"
Somebody muttered the words, and they seemed to break the spell that had
fallen on the enraged lad who was glaring at Frank.
"Yes, it is Yates!" he snarled. "I suppose all you fellows are Frank
Merriwell's chums, but that makes no difference to me."
He stopped a moment, but he did not take his eyes from Frank's face. He
seemed to be gathering himself for the supreme effort.
"Merriwell," he said, his voice shaking, "you are a sneak!"
Every one expected Frank would leap to his feet and strike Yates, but he
did nothing of the kind. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then
fled away again, leaving him cold and pale. About his firm jaws there
was a sudden hardening, and in turn he showed his teeth.
"Mr. Yates," he said, "you are not complimentary."
"I do not mean to be to such a fellow as you!" Yates shot back.
"You are insulting!"
"I am if the truth can be considered an insult."
"I demand an explanation."
"I do not propose to waste any breath in giving explanations to such as
you. You know why I say you are a sneak--you know you are a sneak!"
Frank Merriwell laughed. That laugh was a warning that he was dangerous.
Diamond knew it; Rattleton knew it. They held themselves ready to make
room when Frank Merriwell saw fit to act.
"You put yourself in a bad light by calling a man a sneak and then
refusing to tell why you call him that," said Frank.
Yates did not know Merriwell very well and that laugh had not sounded a
warning to him. Instead, it really seemed that Frank was frightened,
and he had laughed to conceal the fact.
"It is my conviction," he cried, "that you are not only a sneak, but you
are also a coward! If that is not enough, I will make it still more
forcible."
Quick as a flash, he struck Frank in the face with his clinched fist.
A gasp came from those who witnessed this act. There was no time given
for further words.
Like a leaping panther, Frank Merriwell shot up and alighted on Duncan
Yates. He clutched Yates in his strong grasp, snapped him off his feet,
swung him into the air.
The spectators had fallen back in a wild sort of scramble to get out of
the way. Thus enough room was made for Merriwell to act.
It was a warm day, and the car door was open. Almost before any one
could tell what Frank thought of doing, he leaped out through the
doorway, and, with the lad who had delivered the blow still poised above
his head, seemed on the verge of hurling Yates from the flying train!
"Stop, Frank!"
Diamond shouted the words.
Cries of horror broke from the lips of the other spectators of the
scene, but, strangely enough, none of them made a move to prevent
Merriwell from carrying out his apparent purpose.
If Merriwell flung Yates from the train the unfortunate lad who had
aroused Frank's wrath must be instantly killed.
At first, when he had felt himself clutched, Yates had struggled, but,
to his amazement, he seemed like a child in the grasp of the infuriated
athlete.
As Frank reached the platform and poised Yates aloft, the latter seemed
to realize his peril, and fear robbed him of nerve and strength. He was
limp and helpless in Merriwell's grasp.
And then, almost as quickly as Frank had caught the lad up, he lowered
him to his feet.
Again Merriwell laughed, but this time there really seemed to be
something of amusement in the sound.
"If I had dropped you off, Mr. Yates, you must have been injured," he
said, and his voice was soft and gentle.
Yates gasped.
"Jee!" chattered Bink Stubbs. "That was a regular hair-raiser, as the
fellow said when he finished the blood-and-thunder story."
Yates swayed and caught at the iron rail. The flush had gone out of his
face, which was ashen-gray.
"Better go into the car," said Merriwell. "You seem rather unsteady, and
you might fall off here."
Without a word, Yates steadied himself by taking hold of the side of the
door, and entered the car.
Merriwell followed, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it lightly
to the spot on his cheek where a slight bruise marked the spot that had
felt the enraged lad's fist.
The witnesses of this scene seemed to breathe freely for the first time.
They stared at Frank as if his marvelous display of strength had been a
revelation to them.
Yates had plenty of friends, as he had never seemed a bad sort of
fellow, but the fact that he had struck Merriwell while the latter was
sitting down was against him.
"He's been drinking," one declared. "Merriwell could not have handled
him that way otherwise."
"Did Merriwell really mean to throw him off?" asked another.
There were some murmurs of disapproval at Frank's action, but the
expressions of astonishment and admiration for his display of strength
drowned all other sounds.
Yates turned and looked at Frank, but he seemed unable to express his
feelings by means of words.
Jack Diamond was flushed with rage.
"It would have served the fellow right if Merriwell had dropped him
off!" declared the hot-blooded Southerner.
Andy Emery was near at hand, but he had been unable to give Yates any
assistance when the latter was grasped by Frank.
"Good heavens!" he kept repeating, as he stared at Frank Merriwell in a
manner that showed his unutterable amazement.
It was plain that such a display of strength had been a revelation to
him, and from that time Emery was bound to regard Merriwell with renewed
respect.
"Mr. Yates," said Frank, quietly, "this is no place to settle any
quarrel that has arisen between us; but I wish to say before witnesses
that I consider you entirely in the wrong, and certainly you owe me an
apology. You may not think so now, but I believe you will think so in
time."
That was all. He returned to his seat and sat down. Yates seemed to
hesitate, and then turned away, accompanied by Emery.
Flemming had kept himself in the background during the entire affair.
When the train reached Springfield Yates was in no condition to go to
the ball ground. He had taken too much whiskey to carry, and his
pretended friends, Flemming and Emery, were forced to get him out of
sight as soon as possible.
"That ought to be a settler for him," said Diamond. "A fellow who is in
training for a race can't afford to get loaded."
Yale men had heavily backed their own club to win, and it seemed that
the majority of the Harvard crew was trying to put money on the blue.
It was expected by Harvard that Merriwell would pitch the deciding game,
for the actual condition of his hand had been kept a secret, and
Harvard feared Merriwell.
To himself Frank confessed that he could pitch the game, as his hand was
in fairly good condition, but such improvement had not been expected,
and it had been arranged that he should do no "twirling."
Besides that, it was Heffiner's last game for Yale, and, taking into
consideration the record he had made, it seemed no more than right that
he should be placed in the box.
The usual crowd had gathered to witness the game, and there was the
usual display of flags. Yale was over-confident; Harvard was hopeful,
but filled with fears.
The game began, and for three innings Yale had the advantage. The "sons
of Old Eli" were jubilant, and they made the air ring with their cheers
and songs.
At the end of the third inning it was seen that Harvard must make a
change if it had any hope of winning. Yedding, the great Cambridge
pitcher, was "rocky." He could not find the plate, and he was "hammered"
when he did "get 'em over."
Some Yale man with an inclination to rhyme had composed some doggerel
verse, which about twenty lads were singing to some sort of mongrel
tune.
"Poor Harvard she can talk--
(That's all!)
At other things she'll balk;
We'll beat her in a walk--
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
"Poor Harvard's lost her grip--
(That's so!)
She's let the pennant slip,
We've done her up this trip--
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
"It is altogether too early in the game to crow," declared Frank
Merriwell. "Several things may happen before the ninth inning is over."
"Oh, we've got the game nailed solid now!" declared Bruce Browning, in a
satisfied way. "Robinson will be able to get his shirts out of soak."
In the fourth inning Harvard sent a new pitcher into the box. It was
Coulter, who, as a freshman, had pitched against Merriwell.
Coulter was nervous and rather wild at first, but he puzzled the Yale
men, who could not hit him when he did get them over the plate.
"If he steadies down, he will prove to be a bad man," said Frank,
soberly. "This is his first trial on the regular team, and he is not at
his best just now."
Yale secured one score in the fourth inning, while Harvard retired with
her third whitewash.
In the fifth there was a change. Coulter did steady down in a most
astonishing manner, for he sent the Yale men to the bench in
one-two-three order.
That seemed to give Harvard new life, and, when she came to bat, she
showed a determination to do something.
Right there was where Heffiner took a streak of wildness, and Harvard
scored three times.
Coulter kept up his work in the sixth, by allowing but one short single
to be taken off his delivery, and no Yale man got further than second
base.
Then it seemed that Harvard came to the plate with a determination to
"pound it out." The defenders of the crimson jumped on Heffiner's
curves, and the way they banged the leather gave the Yale crowd symptoms
of heart failure. A single, a two-bagger and a homer in quick succession
caused Heffiner to develop a bad case of "rattles," and it seemed that
Harvard would never let up. There was consternation in the Yale ranks
when Harvard tied the score with but one man out, and that consternation
threatened to become a panic when two more scores came in.
Old Man Hicks was set at work "warming up," although it was felt that he
must be a desperate resort. When Harvard scored again, Hicks was sent
into the box.
The change seemed to work well, for Harvard's score getting was brought
to an abrupt termination.
But Yale was in a desperate situation, for, at the beginning of the
seventh, Harvard was three scores in the lead.
Merriwell had been on the point of going down and offering to do what he
could to check Harvard's wild career, but it seemed that Old Man Hicks
had done that, and so he sat still.
But Yale could not score. Coulter seemed to feel that the opportunity of
his life had arrived, and he sent the Spalding's over the plate with all
sorts of twists. The Yale men could not make fair and satisfactory
connections with the ball, so no man reached home.
Hicks was lucky, and he succeeded in scattering the hits, which, with
fine support, enabled him to retire Harvard with another goose's egg.
The eighth inning was disastrous for the blue, although Yale won a score
by hard base running. When Harvard took her turn, she seemed to fathom
Dad Hicks' delivery, and, for a short time, he was treated quite as bad
as Heffiner had been. At the end of the eighth inning Harvard was six
scores ahead, and it was plain that the game was lost for Yale.
Scores of sad-faced Yale spectators were heard expressing regret that
Frank Merriwell had not been used in the game. Some of the wearers of
the blue left the field immediately, unwilling to witness the
termination of the game.
With despair set upon their faces, the Yale men went to the bat, ready
to fight to the last gasp. But Coulter was also determined not to let
slip any of the glory he had won, and all Yale's efforts to score were
fruitless. The game ended with Harvard still six in the lead.
Phil Coulter was the hero of Harvard that night, while poor Hugh
Heffiner returned to New Haven with his heart almost bursting with
disappointment.