A BAD BEGINNING.
When Frank rose from the bench to go into the box he was seized by a
queer sensation at the pit of the stomach, and there seemed to be a
blur before his eyes.
“What ails me?” was the thought that passed through his mind.
Then he heard a laugh that caused him to turn and look toward the
grand stand, brushing his hand across his eyes. There in the stand
sat Hank Dowling and Charley Bates. The dark-faced gambler was
laughing and looking straight at Merry.
In that moment a feeling of suspicion assailed him. Somehow it seemed
that the grinning rascal in the stand was responsible for the feeling
of giddiness that had attacked Merry.
“Foolish!” muttered Frank. “It can’t be.”
Yet at that moment Dowling was saying to Bates:
“Look at him! He staggered a bit when he got up. The stuff is getting
in its work.”
“You’re a dandy!” exclaimed the opium fiend admiringly. “But I don’t
understand how you got the stuff into him.”
“Know Pete, the cross-eyed waiter, down at the hotel where those
chaps are stopping?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I got Pete out of a bad scrape last winter when he was
arrested for cutting a man.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. He said he’d do anything for me. I haven’t wanted to use him
till to-day.”
“What then?”
“I dined there. I called on Pete to doctor Merriwell’s vichy water,
which he ordered. I gave him the stuff to do the trick, and he did
it. Merriwell must have tasted something wrong in the water, for he
drank only half a glass. That was enough, though.”
“You think he won’t be able to pitch?”
“If he is able, they’ll hammer him all over the lot. I stand to win
two thousand to-day.”
“And, having taken your advice, I have my last blooming dollar on the
game. If we don’t win, I’m in the soup.”
“We’ll win. Watch Merriwell. Bryant will begin with a hit.”
Frank stood in the box, while Bryant came up to the plate. Twice he
passed a hand across his eyes. Then he looked for Bart’s signal,
nodded, and delivered the ball.
Bryant met the very first one with a smash that sent out a clean
single.
“I told you!” laughed Dowling quietly. “I knew what would happen!”
Merry muffed the ball when it was thrown in.
“Get ready for the slaughter!” cried Prince, as Jones came up.
Merry hesitated, accepted the signal, then pitched the ball wild and
Bryant went to second on it. The spectators were amazed. They could
scarcely believe this was the same fellow who had, disguised as a
jay, done such work for St. Paul the day before.
“He’ll steady down in a moment,” said many.
Dick Merriwell was filled with alarm, for he plainly saw something
was the matter with Frank.
“He’s sick!” muttered Dick.
Then Merry put a ball over and Jones smashed it out for two bags,
bringing Bryant in with a run.
“Why, it’s going to be a regular snap!” cried Prince.
“Looks like a skinch,” muttered Ready, to himself. For once in his
heedless life Jack was extremely worried and betrayed it.
“Use the double, Merry,” he urged.
Stebson was up, and Frank signed that he would start with the
double-shoot.
Then Merry sent one into Stebson’s ribs, and the captain of the
Minneapolis team walked.
Bart came down to speak to Merry.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Something,” confessed Frank; “but I think I’ll be all right in a
minute.”
Hardy walked up with a barrel of confidence.
Again Frank tried the double-shoot, but he did not make it curve both
ways, and Hardy drove it far into right field.
Jones and Stebson both came in, and Hardy took second on the throw to
stop Stebson from scoring.
“Oh!” shouted the crowd, in disgust.
Corday was eager, and Merry managed to force him into putting up a
high fly, which was gathered by Gamp in deep center.
Hardy attempted to make third after the fly was caught, but Joe lined
the ball straight into Ready’s hands, and Jack tagged the runner out.
Two men were retired.
Prince waited till Frank gave him a good one, and then he singled
safely.
Hodge was calling for the double-shoot, but Frank could not use it.
In truth, Merry could scarcely see the batter, save in a blur.
Rafferty laughed at Merry as he came to the plate. Then he hit the
first one into right field, where Carker pulled it down, after a hard
run.
Three men were out at last, but the home team had made three scores
and Merry had been hit hard.
Dick met Frank when he came in to the bench, but Merry simply shook
his head, without saying a word. As he did so, Frank heard that
triumphant laugh in the grand stand, but the blur before his eyes did
not permit him to locate the exultant rascal.
Merry would answer no questions, but he spoke in a low tone to Dick.
“Warm up,” he said.
The boy understood. He was to go into the box against Minneapolis.
His heart leaped and then sank. For a moment he grew pale, and then
he asked for a ball. A moment later Dick and Bart were moving out to
a place where the boy could warm up.
The spectators did not realize what it meant, for not one of them
imagined that the slender boy would be sent against the heavy-batting
leaguers.
Gamp came up and made a fierce try for a hit, which dropped the ball
in the hands of an outfielder.
Browning seemed dispirited, for he fanned three times on the first
three balls pitched.
Swiftwing fouled repeatedly and then struck out.
Again Merriwell’s men had been retired in order.
As the home team came in from the field something surprising happened.
Out from the dressing-rooms came a most fantastic figure. It was
an old savage, dressed in the feathers and finery so loved by his
people, and painted in the most hideous manner. Straight toward the
home plate he advanced.
“Look at that!”
“What is it?”
“An Indian!”
“It’s a joke!”
These exclamations came from the astonished spectators.
“It’s Old Joe!” breathed Dick Merriwell. “What is he going to do?”
No one interfered with the old redskin, but all waited and watched to
see what he was about to do.
When he was about four feet from the home plate the old fellow halted
and extended his hands, while his painted face was uplifted. Thus he
stood for several seconds. Then he began moving round the plate in
a circle, gradually increasing his pace and changing his step to a
dance. From his lips came a low, weird sound that was like a song,
and it grew louder and louder as he continued the dance.
“It’s a regular war-dance!” exclaimed Jack Ready. “So help me, Joseph
is doing this to give us strength in battle!”
Thus, singing a strange battle-song, which grew louder and louder,
Old Joe did a wild war-dance round the home plate.
No one interrupted the old fellow, for all were interested in the
singular performance. A few small boys hooted and whooped, while
many laughed; but to nothing of this sort did the Indian pay the
least attention.
Crowfoot’s movements quickly became fierce and violent, till it
seemed most amazing that a man of his years could go through them.
His singing was a shriek, and then, of a sudden, it stopped. With
heaving breast, the painted fellow turned and walked toward the bench
of the visiting players.
Dick Merriwell was standing there, and straight to the boy advanced
the Indian. Dick met him, and the old savage grasped the hand of the
lad.
After looking into Dick’s eyes, the Indian lifted his face skyward
and uttered a yell that startled and amazed many who heard it. It was
the confident war-cry of his tribe, and it meant that he felt sure of
victory.
When this yell had pealed from his lips, Old Joe lightly touched Dick
on the cheeks and forehead, following which he struck the boy a sharp
blow on both his right and left arm.
“Go!” he said. “Heap much strong to beat!”
Then Merriwell’s team went onto the field, Dick entering the box.
Hank Dowling laughed his satisfaction, softly, grimly.
“Look at that, Charley!” he said. “See the kid they have been forced
to put in Merriwell’s place.”
“They’ll kill that boy in one inning,” asserted Bates.
“Why, it’s foolishness to put him against such sluggers as our men
are!”
“Worse than foolishness! They will bat his eyes out. I’ve made a
good thing to-day and evened up with Merriwell for what happened
yesterday.”
Hicks, the first batter, stepped out to the plate, looking
sympathetically at Dick.
“Too bad, kid,” he said. “I hate to do it, but I’ve got to fat my
batting-average to-day.”
Dick made no reply. He took the signal from Bart and prepared to
pitch. Hodge had called for the boy’s remarkable jump ball at the
very start.
Dick sent it in with considerable speed, and, still laughing, Hicks
tried to meet it.
The ball seemed to jump right over his bat!
“That’s queer!” exclaimed the striker. “Should have hit that on the
nose.”
“Why, he couldn’t hit you in a year!” came from Ready.
“It’s a snap, Dick,” spoke Rattleton.
“Dead easy,” grunted Browning.
“Put it right over,” advised Carson.
Dick prepared to deliver the ball again, but now, to the surprise of
the batter, he changed his position so that he seemed ready to pitch
left-handed.
In came the ball, but it seemed wide of the plate. It curved inward,
however, and cut the outside corner.
“Strike two!” declared the umpire.
The batter had not offered at it, and he was angry, but the umpire
quickly stopped a kick.
Then the boy changed back again and delivered the ball with his right
hand, again resorting to the jump ball, which caused Hicks to fan.
“Batter is out!” cried the umpire.
A shout went up from the crowd.
“The kid struck him out!”
“That’s right!”
“He pitches with either hand!”
“Hicks thought him too easy.”
“Potter will get a hit.”
The crowd was talking excitedly as the pitcher for the Minneapolis
team walked up to the plate. Hicks growled as he retired to the bench.
“Think of being struck out by that baby!” he exclaimed.
Potter was determined to show what he could do. He batted
left-handed, and immediately Dick prepared to deliver the ball with
his left hand.
The remarkable boy could throw with either hand, and, of late, he had
been practising pitching with his left hand. To his surprise, he had
found he could get greater curves with his left than with his right,
but his control was not quite as good, while his speed was much less.
The first ball pitched to Potter was very wild, but Dick took pains
with the next one, and sent a drop over. Potter fouled it, and his
friends told him he would meet the next one. He did not, however, and
Dick got two strikes on him very quickly.
Then, as Hodge called for the jump ball, the boy changed about and
threw with his right hand.
The ball looked like one straight over, and Potter went after it. It
rose clear of his bat and landed safely in Bart’s mitt.
“Striker out!” cried the umpire.
“Ah!” shouted the witnesses, amazed because the slender lad had
fanned two of the home team.
But now up came Bryant, regarded as the best single hitter on the
Minneapolis team. Dick seemed to try to “pull” him, but the batter
was a great waiter, and three balls without a strike were called on
the youthful pitcher.
“Nobody walks!” exclaimed Ready.
“Put it straight over,” advised Carson.
“Let him hit it,” from Rattleton.
“We’ll get him,” rumbled Browning.
Bart felt certain Bryant’s training would compel him to wait, and so
he signed for one straight over.
Dick obeyed. The ball whistled, and it cut the home plate in two even
pieces.
“Strike!”
“That’s the talk!” cried Carson. “He’ll have to hit it!”
Again Dick drove the ball straight over.
“Strike two!”
“Oh, lul-lul-lul-let him hit it!” cried Gamp, from center field. “I
want to warm up.”
Bart called for the rise.
Dick grasped the ball for the jump, on which he put his greatest
reliance. In vain he had practised and worked to acquire the
double-shoot, but, while thus employed, he had learned how to throw
the jump ball, which seemed quite as effective as the double-shoot.
When the boy sent the ball in it seemed another one straight over.
Bryant did not try to “kill it,” but he swung to meet the sphere and
line it out.
The ball gave that queer jump, and he did not touch it at all.
“Batter is out!” cried the umpire.
Then the crowd uttered a roar, for this slender lad struck out the
first three men to face him.
“What’s the matter with that?” yelled a man. “Why, he’s just as good
as Frank Merriwell!”
“Hanged if I don’t believe he’s better!” cried another.
“Who is he? Who is he?” was the question that went from mouth to
mouth.
Somebody found out.
“He’s Frank Merriwell’s brother!”
This information caused a great buzzing in the crowd, and interest in
Dick grew apace.
Feeling sick and giddy, Merry had sat on the bench and endeavored to
keep track of what was taking place. Although he had great confidence
in his brother, he was fearful that Dick might not prove equal to the
emergency. It was a hard place to put a lad of so few years and so
little experience.
But Merry was satisfied when he found that Dick had thus easily
disposed of three batters.
“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe, who was sitting on the bench in all his
painted glory. “Heap big snap!”
“Good boy!” said Merry, as Dick came in. “You’re a brother worth
having.”
Up in the grand stand two men were talking.
“What do you think of that, Hank?” exclaimed Bates.
“Luck!” retorted Bates. “Nothing but luck. They’ll pound his eye out
next inning.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course they will! How can they help it? He’s nothing but a kid.”
“But they say he’s Frank Merriwell’s brother.”
“What of that?”
“These Merriwells are hard to beat.”
“What’s the matter with you? Are you squealing?”
“No, but I feel like hedging. Trouble is I haven’t a dollar to hedge
with.”
“You would be a fool to hedge! That boy isn’t strong enough to last
a whole game.”
“But I’m stripped if we lose--and you’ll be to blame!”
“Your nerve is failing.”
But, in spite of his placid outward appearance, Hank Dowling was not
quite easy. Being a gambler, he was nothing if not superstitious, and
the appearance of the old redskin on the field had filled him with
strange forebodings.