THE GREAT HIT.
It was a great game after the bad first inning. Up to the eighth
neither side made any further scores. In the last of the eighth,
however, through wildness, Dick gave the first man up a base on
balls. The next batter sacrificed the runner to second. Then Dick
gave another bag. On top of that, the next hitter batted one to
Ready, who fumbled it long enough to fill the bags.
Only one man was out.
Then up from the bench rose Frank Merriwell. In the midst of the game
he had been very sick, but now his brain seemed clear and his hand
felt steady. Into the diamond he walked, and Dick walked out.
The crowd shouted.
“Remember how they hit him in the first inning!” “It’s all over now!”
“They’ll make a dozen!” “Move back your outfielders!”
Frank took the ball and looked at Bart, who gave a sign. Merry shook
his head, and assumed a position that indicated he was about to use
the double-shoot.
Every man on the field knew what was coming. The batter, however, was
not prepared.
Whiz!--that strangely twisting ball went over the pan.
“Strike one!” cried the umpire.
Bart smiled grimly as he returned the ball.
Whiz--again came the double-shoot, but with curves reversed.
The batter swung hard, missed, fell down.
“Two strikes!”
Bart Hodge showed his teeth. This was Merriwell in form. The speed
was enough to make the ball burn through the big catching-mitt.
“Pretty, Merry--pretty!” said Bart.
The batter got up, muttering to himself.
Merry knew he had the fellow on the string, and so he used a high,
straight ball. The fellow went after it, and fanned.
“Batter is out!”
“Well, well, well!” cried somebody in the crowd. “That’s the way he
pitched yesterday! Now he is getting into gear!”
The next batter had his teeth set, but Merry used the double-shoot
with the same deadly effect. Three times the fellow fanned, and the
side was retired.
Minneapolis had not scored after getting the bags filled with only
one out.
“Heap big stuff!” came from Old Joe, as Merry walked in to the bench.
“Who is the hitter?” asked Frank.
“I’m the first man,” said Browning.
“Get hit by the ball if you can,” commanded Merry. “If you can’t,
then get your base on balls. Make believe you are anxious to line it
out, but do not hit.”
Bruce groaned, for he was anxious to hit. Merry, however, had found
that any one who waited stood a good show of getting a base off
Potter, who had grown wild as the game advanced.
Browning went up to the plate, and two strikes were called on him
without delay. Then he looked at Merry for permission to hit, but
Frank grimly shook his head.
The next one looked close, but the umpire called it a ball. Then
Potter tried an out, but that was a ball. A high one followed, and
three balls had been called.
Now Bruce expected a straight one over the center, and again he
besought permission to hit it out. Again Frank shook his head.
Potter tried to put one right over, but he failed, and the umpire
called four balls.
“Oh, Laura!” squealed Jack Ready, as he waltzed down to the
coaching-line by first. “Here is where we win the bun!”
“Make him get them right over,” said Frank, as Swiftwing picked out
a bat. “Don’t go after high ones.”
The young Indian was cool enough when he walked up to the plate, and
he smashed the second one toward first, but just inside the line.
The first baseman got the ball while Browning was racing for second.
Fortunately, Bruce had a big start. As it was, he would not have
reached second had not the baseman dropped the ball thrown by Prince
after putting Swiftwing out at first. But Bruce was safe on second,
and one man was out.
Frank knew Rattleton stood little show of getting a hit, and so he
said:
“Get your base on balls.”
Harry stood up and pretended to be ready to hit, but did not swing.
Four balls were called.
Carker came next.
“Get your base on balls,” said Merry grimly.
Carker did not reply.
The first one was over for a strike. Then came a ball. Then another
ball. But a strike followed, and Carker’s show looked poor.
Potter tried a very high one, and Greg came near swinging.
“Three balls!” decided the umpire.
Frank rose from the bench, a bat in his hand.
“Do not strike at the next one, Carker,” he plainly said. “If it cuts
the plate in two, let it pass.”
Suddenly Potter was anxious. He knew another ball would fill the
bases. Although he was aware that the batter would not strike, he was
altogether too anxious to get the ball across, and he failed to find
the plate.
“Take your base!” said the umpire.
The spectators shouted. The bases were filled, and up to the plate
stepped Frank Merriwell.
Now was the time to win.
Charley Bates was paler than usual, while Hank Dowling, for all of
his nerve, did not look quite easy.
Potter began to fancy that everybody on the other team intended
trying to walk. That caused him to put the first ball right over for
Merriwell.
It was just where Frank wanted it. He met it fairly, and away sailed
the sphere.
For a moment the runners held their bases, and then a great roar went
up:
“It’s over the fence!”
In right field the fence was shorter than elsewhere, and Merry had
picked out that point, driving the ball hard to put it over.
It was over!
Round the bases to the home plate came man after man, while the grand
stand and bleachers thundered. As Merry came trotting down from
third, Old Joe Crowfoot rose and added his shrill shriek of joy to
the clamorous uproar.
That home run had placed Frank’s team one score in the lead.
Dick Merriwell danced with delight, laughing and shouting.
What did it matter if Jack Ready followed with a pop-fly and was out?
What though Carson failed to hit the ball at all and the side was
retired?
Merry went into the box again, and before him fell the best hitters
of the home team. They could do absolutely nothing with his
double-shoot.
Merry had won the game with his home-run hit over the fence in the
first of the ninth.