THE CHALLENGE GAME.
The morning papers contained accounts of the appearance of the “jay
pitcher” in the ball-game the previous day and his final unmasking
as Frank Merriwell. While the papers were forced to confess that his
work in the box had been surprising, still not one of the reporters
seemed willing to credit him with ability to keep it up. Some of them
stated that his delivery was puzzling to strange batsmen, but that
almost any hard-hitting team would be sure to fall upon him heavily
before a game was over.
This made Hodge angry and disgusted.
“Why is it,” said Bart, “that these newspaper duffers always
seem to think that college men are not as fast as professionals?
Professionals seldom play for blood, as college men do.”
“But professionals do have the experience,” confessed Merry. “Old
leaguers make the best coaches for college teams.”
“That’s all right; but all the big teams are scouting for college
pitchers nowadays.”
“Pitchers are in demand always. Few college men, however, play on
league teams outside the pitcher’s box. I see these papers think
we’ll be easy for Minneapolis this afternoon.”
“Well, they have another think coming to them. You know the chap who
tried to bribe you to throw the game yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s betting all kinds of money on Minneapolis.”
“How do you know?”
“Belmont, the freshman I saved from getting a thrashing last year,
took me down to one of the sporting clubs last night, and that fellow
was there. His name is Dowling, and he’s a gambler. He was looking
for bets, and he found lots of them. I should imagine he shoved up a
thousand on the game right there.”
Frank smiled.
“If we win,” he said, “Mr. Dowling will be the sorest sport in this
town.”
“We’ll win,” nodded Hodge grimly. “I wouldn’t lose the game for a
thousand dollars!”
“But we’ll have to play ball if they have another pitcher like
Webber.”
“I hear they are going to put their crack pitcher against us.”
“Who is it?”
“Pink Potter.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Is he?”
“Sure thing.”
“You know about him?”
“I know his record. He’ll be in the National next season.”
“What has he done?”
“Shut out two of the leading teams this season without a hit.”
“He can’t do it with us!”
“I hope not.”
“I know he can’t.”
“Still,” said Frank, “we have not what would be regarded as a
hard-hitting team, and some of the men are decidedly weak in their
batting.”
“Slugging doesn’t win close games as a rule. I’ve seen good bunting
teams lose games by the foolishness of their manager. Wanting a run
or two, they have been urged to ‘beef it out,’ which caused them to
fan.”
“That’s right,” Frank agreed, “but hitters are valuable always.”
“You’ll have to hold ’em down. A run or two may be enough to win the
game.”
Hodge did not permit his confidence to be shaken. His faith in Frank
was unbounded.
Merry watched his men closely, for he knew the game on hand was
certain to be difficult.
Dick was delighted over the prospect, but was disappointed when he
found Frank intended to put him on the bench. The boy, despite his
years, fancied he could play in the game and be valuable.
When dinner-time came the boys all went down together, having one
large table in the dining-room. Barely were they seated when Merry
observed at a near-by table the dark-faced gambler who had tried to
bribe him.
Dowling seemed to pay not the slightest attention to Frank. He was
talking to the colored waiter and seemed ordering from the bill of
fare.
The same waiter, with two others, afterward came to wait on Frank’s
table.
Merry took care in the choice of proper food for each man, and
he permitted none of them to have coffee, which he regarded as a
stimulant, but which he was certain often made men heavy and lifeless
in the course of an hour or more after it was taken.
For himself, Merry ordered vichy water, and some of the others took
the same.
The boys were in good spirits, Jack Ready joking and laughing after
his usual manner. Even Greg Carker was cheerful. This, however, Ready
declared, was a bad sign.
“Do you notice anything queer about the taste of this vichy,
Rattleton?” asked Frank.
Harry had a glass of it.
“I don’t know,” answered Rattles. “Don’t think I do.”
“My taste may be off,” confessed Frank, “but it seems odd to me.”
He did not drink more than half of what was placed before him.
After dinner not one of the men was permitted to smoke. Bruce groaned
for his pipe, but Frank said no, and that settled it.
By two o’clock the cars for the baseball-grounds were crowded. It
became evident that a great crowd would turn out to the game.
It was two-thirty when Merriwell’s team appeared on the field. They
were greeted with cheers from the spectators.
St. Paul had sent over a great throng of rooters for Merriwell, his
feat of the previous day having won the admiration of the fans across
the river.
Frank’s team was given the field first for practise. Two men from the
other team volunteered to bat.
Dick Merriwell pulled on the catcher’s glove and Merry started in to
limber up a little. He was pale, as Dick observed.
“Anything the matter?” asked the boy.
Frank shook his head.
Merry started throwing easily and slowly, but several times he
stopped to brush a hand across his eyes. Twice after doing this he
threw the ball far to one side of Dick.
The boy was seized by a conviction that something was wrong, but
Frank would not say so.
Minneapolis put up faster practise than had Merry’s team, and the
spectators began to feel that the difference in the two nines was so
marked that the college men had little show.
At last the hour for the game arrived, and the umpire walked onto the
diamond. Frank’s team was sent to bat first.
“Start it right off, Jack,” advised Frank, as Ready picked out a bat.
“A good start means a lot.”
For once in his life, at least, Ready was not smiling when he
advanced to the plate. The line-up of the teams was as follows:
MERRIES. MINNEAPOLIS.
Ready, 3d b. Bryant, lf.
Carson, ss. Jones, c.
Hodge, c. Stebson, 3d b.
Gamp, cf. Hardy, rf.
Browning, 1st b. Corday, ss.
Swiftwing, lf. Prince, 1st b.
Rattleton, 2d b. Rafferty, cf.
Carter, rf. Hicks, 2d b.
Merriwell, p. Potter, p.
Ready waited well, but Potter started out with good control, and he
forced Jack to swing at last. The ball was hit, but it popped up into
the air, and the short-stop gathered it in.
Carson walked out, met the first one “on the nose,” and drove it like
a bullet into the hands of Potter. The pitcher muffed the ball, but
picked it up in time to throw Berlin out at first.
“Well, well, well!” cried Prince. “How easy they are!”
Both men had hit the ball, however, and Frank felt encouraged.
“He isn’t so hard, Hodge,” said Frank. “A little single will start
the thing going.”
Hodge let the first one pass. It was a high ball, but it turned into
a drop, and the umpire declared a strike.
The next one was an out, and it was called a ball.
Then came one close to Bart’s fingers, and he missed it. The second
strike was called.
Potter “worked the limit,” but Hodge made him put it over. Then Bart
drove out a fly that was taken by Bryant, and the first three batters
had been retired in order.