A CHALLENGE.
Dick hugged the mysterious ball-player when the latter was lowered to
the ground. The pitcher laughed and asked:
“Is this better than the fun you used to have, Dick?”
“It is better than anything!” palpitated the lad. “It’s perfectly
glorious.”
Then up in the grand stand a man rose and cried:
“Minneapolis, you have been taken in to-day! Take a tumble to the
trick! That jay is no jay at all! He’s simply made up like a jay!
He’s some king-pin off the National League rung in on you!”
But up rose another man, who loudly declared:
“You’ve been fooled, all right, but he’s no professional. He’s a
college pitcher, and you ought to know him by this time. Didn’t you
hear his friends when they cheered? Didn’t you hear them singing?
Why, I know who he is!”
“Who?” cried hundreds of voices.
“He’s Frank Merriwell!” declared the man.
A hush--then a cry of surprise rose to a shout of wonder. Everybody
present, it seemed, had heard of Frank Merriwell.
Was it possible this chap could be Merriwell in disguise?
“By the Lord Harry!” gasped Trueman, “I believe that fellow is right!”
Then he jumped at the “jay,” demanding:
“Who are you? Is that man telling the truth? Are you Frank Merriwell?”
“Well, by gum! what a question?” grinned the strange pitcher. “How
kin I be?”
“But you are!” asserted the captain of the St. Paul team positively.
“You’re no Rube!”
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the fellow, slapping his thigh and
seeming greatly amused.
But the man in the grand stand cried again:
“He is Frank Merriwell, and those chaps on the bleachers who cheered
for him and sang are members of his baseball-team.”
Up rose an apple-cheeked chap in the midst of the group of young
athletes on the bleachers. He looked around with a radiant smile,
flirted one hand with a peculiar gesture that seemed to command
silence, and then clearly cried:
“Ladies and gentlemen--and others: The Solomonlike gentleman in the
grand stand has made it impossible to longer maintain the deception,
and so we are forced to admit that his eagle eye has penetrated
the disguise of our esteemed and honored captain. Yonder Rube,
with hayseed in his hair is in truth the only and original Frank
Merriwell, who has in his sleeve a few kinks and twists he has not
ventured to give the ball to-day. We, ladies and gentlemen, are his
humble followers, and we are modest enough to confess that we regard
him as the greatest pitcher who ever came down the pike. Yea, verily,
even so! The choir will now chant an anthem.”
Then he sat down and the young men on the bleachers loudly sang:
“All hail to the chief who strikes out the batter,
He puts the ball over the four-cornered platter;
And then with the stick he’s ever quite handy,
In the game of baseball our Merry’s a dandy.”
The delighted spectators cheered and applauded.
“This game isn’t over,” cried a Minneapolis man. “We have another
inning.”
“But you’ll never be able to make a run off that pitcher,” retorted
a fan from St. Paul.
“Oh, he can be hit!” flung back the other.
Webber had been given time to cool down, and now he caused the next
batter to put up an easy one. The last man fanned, and the side was
out. But the lead secured by St. Paul seemed large in a game of this
sort.
As Merriwell walked out into the box he was given an ovation by the
spectators.
“That makes me sick!” muttered Stebson, captain of the home team.
“He’s nothing but an ordinary college pitcher. He’s had great luck
to-day, but I don’t believe he could keep the work up through nine
innings.”
“We made a mistake in letting them substitute him,” said one of the
players.
“But who’d thought he was anything much! He’s a mighty clever actor.”
“I understand he was on the stage once.”
“That accounts for it.”
The captain of the home team did not propose to give the game up.
He declared there was a show to win out, and the batters went up to
strike under his directions. He told them just what to do, and they
obeyed him.
Merry was at a disadvantage, for he did not have his regular catcher.
However, Frank worked the first batter cleverly, the fellow being
thrown out at first on an easy hit to third.
The next one tried to bunt, but Merry had anticipated the trick
and kept the balls high. It is difficult to bunt a high ball
successfully, and two tries resulted in two strikes. Then the fellow
fanned and struck out.
“The game is all over!” cried a St. Paul man.
Then up rose a Minneapolis man and shouted:
“It’s nothing but a streak of luck. We can beat a team with that boy
pitching for it nine times out of ten. I’ll back Minneapolis to win
against Frank Merriwell’s own team.”
This created applause, and Merriwell laughed.
“It’s a good thing to have faith in your home team,” he said quietly.
“Will you play us?” demanded the man.
“I should be delighted,” answered Frank, “but I have to hear from
your manager.”
Then he proceeded to strike the last batter out, and the game was
over.
“What do we owe you?” asked the manager of the St. Pauls, as Merry
walked in to the bench.
“Nothing,” was the answer. “I didn’t do this for pay, but for the
sport.”
“How can we thank you?”
“You don’t have to. I owe you thanks.”
“For what?”
“The fun I’ve had.”
Merriwell’s friends rushed down and gathered round him.
“Ye gods and little fish-hooks!” spouted Ready, posing before Frank.
“But you do look like a freak! And to think this is the fastidious
Frank Merriwell!”
“Merry, you’re a dim-jandy!” spluttered Rattleton, grasping Frank by
the hand. “You’ve given us any amount of fun!”
“More sport than I’ve had before in a month,” rumbled Browning. “I
can have lots of fun out of baseball when I don’t have to play.”
“But I’m th-th-th-thundering mad!” stuttered Gamp fiercely.
“What about?” asked Merry.
“You mum-mum-mum-mocked my laugh,” said Joe. “Gosh-ding if I didn’t
think sometimes that I was lul-lul-lul-laughin’ myself!”
“Couldn’t anybody else do the trick you did, Merry,” said Hodge.
“It was better than a round-up,” nodded Berlin Carson.
“Heap much big time!” put in Old Joe Crowfoot, who had joined the
group.
“Crowfoot,” said Frank, “you’re a mascot. You hoodoo the other side
when you utter that ear-splitting war-whoop.”
“Dick him like for me to do um,” said the savage.
“And you will do anything for Dick,” said Merry, resting a hand on
the shoulder of the Indian who had thrice attempted his life. “For
that reason you are my friend.”
The manager of the Minneapolis team pushed his way into the group.
“You’re a rather clever chap, Merriwell,” he said, with an angry
sneer on his face. “We owe you something.”
“Don’t mention it!” smiled Frank.
“But I have to mention it. We owe you a good beating.”
“What sort? Same as those toughs tried to give me?”
“Perhaps he’s sore because they failed to get in their work,” flared
Hodge.
“Not that sort,” said the manager. “But you seem to have a swelled
head. You think you can’t be beaten. The truth is that you had a big
streak of luck to-day.”
“Do you count it luck?”
“I certainly do! Why, you struck out men the best pitchers in this
league cannot make fan.”
“They’d get used to that if they had to bat against him right along,”
said Jack Ready airily.
“They’d hammer him all over the lot in another game!” exclaimed the
manager.
“Oh, for another game!” sighed Jack.
“You shall have it if you dare play!” exclaimed the manager. “We have
an open date to-morrow, and we’ll play you right here at three in the
afternoon. Do you dare accept?”
“I shall accept with great pleasure,” bowed Frank, smiling.
“And we’ll trim you scientifically,” added Ready.