GRAFTER GROWS UNEASY.
The game that was to be between Frank Merriwell’s team and the great
Outcasts was thoroughly advertised. Much was said about it in the
sporting columns of the New York papers. The sporting writers were
one and all inclined to doubt the ability of the Merries to check the
triumphant career of the Outcasts.
One well-known sporting writer demonstrated in his paper, to his own
satisfaction, at least, that it was utterly impossible for Merriwell’s
team to defeat the fast nine formed from the very best of the “timber”
left over from the big leagues.
It must not be fancied that Frank himself felt certain of winning.
He knew the sort of a “proposition” he and his comrades were going
up against. It aroused all his sporting blood and determination. It
likewise aroused the others. Hodge was the only man on the team who
seemed confident of victory, but all were resolved to play for their
very lives.
At least, it would be no disgrace if they met defeat. They practiced
faithfully, and each day Merry worked at his new curve.
“Bart,” he said, “I hope I can fool those chaps with that ball. I hear
they are wonderful batters. I have been told that they have found a
man who throws something like the double-shoot, and they have been
practicing batting with him as pitcher. They expect to fall on me when
I hand them up the double-shoot and hammer me to the four winds.”
“You’ll fool them, Merry,” nodded Hodge positively. “If they get a
single hit off that curve I shall be surprised.”
“You’ve seen what the papers are saying about our prospects. We’re
called fast enough to make it interesting for college teams, but
several degrees too weak to hold down the Outcasts. Henshaw, of the
_Universe_, says the chances are more than even that we’ll not score
if O’Neill is used against us. Anderson, of the _Standard_, says it
would be a shame to use O’Neill and give us no chance; he urges Manager
McGann to put in Brackett. Pulsifer, of the _Evening Dispatch_, thinks
we are going to lose the reputation we have made on our trip this
season.”
“And they all make me tired!” cried Bart. “We’ll give them a chance to
sing another song in their Sunday columns.”
The boys took care of themselves, lived properly and sought to come up
to the game in the pink of condition.
Frank kept his eyes open for Hobart Manton, but once more Manton seemed
to have disappeared completely.
From Wallace Grafter he learned that charges had been preferred at the
Eagle Heights A.A. against Frost and Necker, as having attempted to
assault an honorary member of the club. Merriwell had been taken into
the Eagle Heights A.A. after his success at the meet in defeating two
of its champions.
Saturday proved to be a fine day. The boys were in a glow of
enthusiasm. When they thought of the coming struggle in Hoboken they
tingled all over.
The game was to be called at 3 o’clock. At 2.30 Frank and his team
reached the grounds and found a river of people crowding in at the
gate. Evidently the game would be witnessed by an immense crowd.
They hurried to the dressing rooms and quickly got into their suits.
When they came out onto the field they found the Outcasts practicing.
The appearance of Merriwell’s team produced a stir and caused many of
the spectators to applaud loudly.
Melvin McGann hastened to shake hands with Frank. He was beaming in a
most satisfied manner.
“Look at this mob!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have hard work
keeping them off the field. We’ve stretched ropes, but ropes won’t
hold a crowd back if it gets too large. Here is Captain Hurley. Mr.
Hurley—Mr. Merriwell.”
Hugh Hurley shook hands with Frank.
“Glad to meet you Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “You may have the field for
practice.”
Frank sent his players out at once.
Bob Gowan and Mike Grafter were sitting together. Wallace Grafter
joined them as the Merries trotted onto the field.
The Tammany man surveyed the youngsters in blue in a doubtful manner.
“Is this the team you told me to bet on, son?” he asked.
“Sure, dad,” nodded Wallace.
“Rather immature, some of ’em. Look like boys.”
“They are all men in years, although they do look rather boyish,” said
Wallace.
“Hum!” grunted Mr. Grafter doubtfully.
Gowan grinned.
“I’ve got ye!” he wheezed. “Your money is mine! The kids won’t be in
the game for a minute.”
The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and
they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of
the offenders. He made a high throw to second.
“Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank.
Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low.
Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to
make the throw good.
It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done.
Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect
after that, and it was.
To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of
that, he was impressing Bart by force of example.
As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy.
“I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better
have done it. I’ll never see it again.”
Again Gowan grinned.
“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble
with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold
feet.”
“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on
Frank Merriwell, and you think the whole of his bunch just as good as
he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”
“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”
“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”
“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will
show him up.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that
I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than
off Merriwell.”
“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”
The bet was made.
There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed
Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.
Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making
an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of
white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts
and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy
chap in a baseball suit.
At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered
exclamations of surprise.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as
life! I must be dreaming!”
The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed
in smiles.
“Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and
original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The
spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgid
for utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.”
“Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the
person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why,
cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.”
“Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your
sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.”
“You are playing with the Outcasts?”
“Am I? Ask me! I am their mainstay and support. My fielding is about
nine hundred and ninety-nine per cent. and my batting a trifle better
than five hundred per cent. I was too fast for the Concord team of the
New England League, and so they had to let me go. You see the other
players didn’t have any chance to shine with me in the game. I played
all round them. Not only did I fill my own field at shortstop, but I
often gamboled out into the extreme gardens and picked flies and line
drives right out of the fingers of the fielders. I covered all the
sacks from the initial corner round to the home plate, and often I
backed up the catcher. The populace stood aghast at my strenuosity, and
the players became jealous and pea-green with envy.
“These envious individuals formed a combine against me. They put their
caputs together—caput is French for head—they put their caputs together
and formed a combine. They decided to quit in a body unless I was
released. The manager had no alternative. He pleaded with them with
tears in his eyes and his fists doubled up, but they would not hearken
unto reason, and so he was compelled to release me with honors. I
immediately received offers from Boston, New York, Washington, Chicago,
and Oshkosh. But I decided to throw my fortunes in with the noble
Outcasts, and here I am.
“I’m sorry for you, Merry, old boy, but you haven’t a show with me
in the game against you. Your double-shoot will not save you on this
salubrious afternoon. You will remember that I acquired a spasm of the
double-shoot myself, and I have had the boys batting against it for the
past four days. Every man on the team can hit the double-shoot with his
eyes shut. Just hand it up to them and regret it to the end of your
tempestuous career.”
“So you are the chap who has been training them to bat against me? I
heard some one was doing it.”
“I confess with all due humility and abnegation—abnegation is a good
word, but I don’t know what it means—I confess that I am the guilty
party. I had to do it. You see we haven’t been beaten thus far in our
seething career, and we don’t propose to have our immaculate record
sullied by defeat. The boys knew I could hand out the double-shoot.
When they learned that the game with your team had been arranged, they
led me forth like a lambkin to the slaughter and bade me promulgate the
sphere through the atmosphere after the manner in which you are wont
to do. Then they took their little bats and learned to hit it. I warn
you in advance that they can connect with the ball even though you make
it travel like a writhing snake through the ozone. It will grieve my
tender heart to see you batted all over the lawn, Merry; but I fear
exceedingly that such will be your fate.”
“What do you think of that?” exclaimed Hodge, who had never entertained
any great liking for Wiley. “He has been teaching them to bat your pet
curve, Frank.”
“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even
though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than
a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the
double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it
tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.”
“The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If
you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.”
The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to
join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him.
As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position
of shortstop.
“Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones
over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.”
Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced
round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed
the slab.
Ready was in position to bat.
O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck.
“Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to
have a passing glimpse of it.”
The umpire pronounced it a strike.
“That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the
mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see
the ball.”
Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped
his bat and waited for the next one.
It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the
plate.
“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.
Wiley did a hornpipe.
“It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own
perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking
like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.”
“He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his
tongue.”
O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high,
but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders.
Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out.
The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three
pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them.