A DASTARDLY TRICK.
The crowd roared its approval, for Frank Merriwell had shown himself
quite in the same class as Nesbitt, the professional. Indeed, the
work of Merry in the box had aroused Nesbitt’s jealousy, and he
resolved to show them that he was quite as good as the former great
Yale pitcher.
“I object to this, Merriwell!” cried Ready, as he trotted in from
third. “If you don’t give me a chance to show what I can do in this
game, I’ll quit your old team just as soon as you don’t want me any
more. I won’t play with this team a minute after it disbands, so
there, now!”
“In your old form, Merry,” said Hodge. “Why, you can make the ball
cut any kind of quirks to-day. The double is right at your command.”
Bart’s anger had passed, and his face wore a pleasant look that was
almost a smile.
“The same old dim-jandy!” spluttered Harry Rattleton, who had trotted
in at Merry’s side. “Why, you can spock the knots--I mean you can
knock the spots off any professional in the country!”
“Tell me about that when I’ve grown too old to pitch any more,”
smiled Merry. “I’ll enjoy hearing about it then.”
Dick Merriwell flew past them toward the bench, turning cart-wheels
as he went. He wound up with a handspring and a burst of wild
laughter that attracted general attention.
On the bench of the home players Squinty Jim was saying to the fellow
in the uniform of the Athletic players:
“Dat kid is der one, Bud, an’ I wants ye ter break his ribs der fust
punch. Dat’ll git me even wid him.”
“Oh, go on an’ lick him yerself!” returned the other fellow. “I’d be
’shamed ter hit a babby like dat.”
“Say, he ain’t no babby, Bud; he’s a holy terror.”
“Yer ain’t goin’ ter tell me ag’in dat he done yer widout help?”
“Well, he----”
“If ye does, Jim, ye ain’t no broder of mine. Ye oughter lick dat boy
wid one hand tied behind yer an’ yer eyes shut.”
“Oh, I might ’a’ done it,” said the young ruffian, “but all his
friends was wid him.”
“Thought you said none of ’em touched yer?”
“Well, none of ’em did--’cept his broder.”
“Frank Merriwell?”
“Yes.”
“Wot did he do?” demanded the fellow in uniform sharply. “If he done
anyt’ing to my broder----”
Squinty Jim saw his chance, and he glibly lied:
“He tripped me up once, dat’s all.”
“Is dat all?” exclaimed the other, his bulldog face getting purple.
“Jest w’en I had der little cuss, too,” said Squinty.
“W’y didn’t yer tell me dat at fust?” harshly demanded the other.
“Well, it’s der kid I’m der sorest over. He’s der one I wanted ter
see done up.”
“It’s der odder mug I’m der sorest over. Tripped yer, did he? Well,
mebbe he’ll find dere are odders can do some trippin’.”
The fellow in uniform was Bud McCann, brother to Jim McCann, who was
familiarly known as Squinty Jim. Bud had started out as a pugilist,
but had drifted into baseball, having proved himself a handy utility
man for either the infield or outfield. His old fighting-spirit was
aroused by the falsehood told him by Jim, which he readily swallowed,
as he could not fancy it possible that Squinty had been whipped
fairly without assistance by Dick Merriwell.
Squinty was not particularly anxious to get at Frank, but he did
desire vengeance on Dick. He saw, however, that the only way to get
Bud thoroughly aroused was to tell him a falsehood concerning the
encounter.
“Wot’ll yer do, Bud?” he asked.
“Just wait, an’ mebbe you’ll see,” was the answer. “I kinder feel
like gittin’ at dat fresh college guy, anyhow. Dese college chaps
make me sick! Dey t’ink dey must be somebody just because dey has
been ter college. Now, wot good does goin’ ter college do anybody?
All dis guff ’bout an edercation gives me a pain! Wot’s der use of
knowin’ a lot of truck about Latin or Greek? Give me der English
language, an’ jest as long as I knows how ter handle dat as well as
I does I won’t take a back seat fer no college bloke.”
“Look!” exclaimed Squinty. “He’s the first batter this time.”
“An’ I’ll bet my shirt Nesbitt fans him.”
Frank Merriwell had picked out his favorite bat and advanced to the
plate. Nesbitt smiled when he saw Merry come up, thinking Frank would
be easy, as, in most cases, pitchers are not good hitters.
The catcher had adjusted his mask and body-protector, and he gave the
pitcher a sign. The latter nodded, then sent in a speedy in shoot
that caused Merry to dodge.
“One ball,” called the umpire.
Frank stood up to the plate again.
“Put him back, Mr. Umpire,” requested Nesbitt. “He’s too close.”
But Merry was in his box, and the umpire declined to move him. Again
Nesbitt used the in shoot, but this time he caused Frank to get still
farther back.
“Two balls.”
“Now comes an out,” decided Merry, and he was right, for the pitcher
tried to pull him on the next one.
When Frank refused to fan, Nesbitt found another ball had been called
on him.
“He doesn’t dare let you hit it, Merry!” cried Jack Ready.
“Don’t I?” muttered the pitcher. “See if he’ll try this one.”
He sent over a pretty one, but Frank was playing the game, and he did
not swing at it.
“One strike!” exclaimed the umpire.
The pitcher followed with another of the same kind.
“Two strikes!”
Then Nesbitt tried just what Frank fancied he would. He started the
ball high, but gave it a drop, so it fell as it was about to pass
Frank.
But it never passed. Merry hit it fair and lined it out.
It was a clean single, but Frank took a desperate chance of making
second. The fielder saw what Frank was trying to do, and made a poor
throw in his haste to catch Merry. Frank slid and went under the hand
of the baseman, who tried to reach him with the ball.
“Safe!” said the umpire.
“Wasn’t it pretty?” cried Jack Ready, as he pranced down to third.
“Why, he’s the only fellow on the ground who could make a two-bagger
out of that dink hit! Come on, Merry, old bird! get your wings into
gear and cover space!”
Nesbitt was purple with rage. The great crowd was shouting its
approval of Merriwell’s work, and the excitement seemed intense.
Rattleton was nervous, for he had not yet recovered from his original
conviction that the professionals outclassed Frank’s team, and he
felt himself shivering a little when he advanced to the plate to
strike.
Nesbitt resorted to his speediest ball, sending it over high.
Frank took lots of ground on the pitch, and Bowers failed to hold the
ball, which gave Merry a chance to try for third.
Never in his life had Frank made better speed than he did on that
effort to steal, knowing that the ball had not gone far from the
reach of the catcher.
Bowers got the ball quickly, and lined it down to third. Again Merry
slid, and again he went under the hand that reached for him with the
ball in its grasp.
“Safe!” came once more from the umpire.
Now the roar of applause took on a new note, shrill and joyous,
telling that hundreds of girls were shrieking with delight.
“Why, he’ll steal home in a minute!” cried Ready, as the uproar
subsided. “Couldn’t stop him from scoring with a shotgun! It’s a
pleasant little way he has of winning games. La! la! Isn’t he a
peach, girls?”
“He’s all right!” cried scores of voices. “Hurrah for Frank
Merriwell!”
Rattleton looked toward Merry, who gave him the sign to sacrifice.
Then Harry picked out an opening between second base and first, and
resolved to put the ball through it if possible.
It was not an easy thing, however, to place a hit with Nesbitt in the
box, and Rattleton simply succeeded in popping up a little fly that
was gathered in by Waldron.
Frank leaped off third, as if contemplating an attempt to score after
the ball was caught, but Waldron was too good to be lured into a bad
throw, and Merry was forced to retreat.
Now it was Dick’s turn to hit.
“Oh, what fruit!” cried Joiler. “He couldn’t hit it out of the
diamond, anyhow. Put the ball right over, Nes.”
Nesbitt decided to do so, and the first one fairly whistled.
Frank, however, had given the boy a sign for a bunt, and Dick simply
held up his bat, letting it be loose in his hands and drawing it
back the least bit as the ball struck it.
The result was a beautiful bunt toward first.
Frank was coming down the line when the bunt was made, and he must
have scored had not something happened.
From somewhere a bat came flying out and fell between Merry’s feet,
so that he was tripped and flung headlong.
A shout of astonishment and indignation rose from the witnesses of
this dastardly trick.
Men and women rose to their feet and uttered their angry indignation
in that shout.
Frank had been thrown heavily, and he seemed stunned for a moment.
Before he could recover, the ball was thrown across to Flobert, who
tagged him.
Then Merry got up, and his eyes sought and found the fellow who had
thrown the bat. It was Bud McCann, and Merry went after the fellow in
short order.
McCann, fancying himself a fighter of ability, did not try to get
away.
“You cur!” grated Frank, as he sprang at McCann and grasped him by
the shoulder.
“Git out!” returned the fellow, making a pass at Merry’s face.
Afterward Bud was sorry he tried to strike Frank then, for, an
instant later, a hard fist smote him between the eyes, knocking him
down.
McCann jumped up quickly and went for Frank before any one could
interfere. Merry simply parried the fellow’s second blow and gave him
such a terrible thump that McCann was hurled to the ground fifteen
feet away.
Then the players closed in to separate them, but there was no need of
bothering, for the prize-fighting ball-player had been finished off
in short order, and it was necessary to pour water over him before he
could tell his own name.
Squinty Jim was dazed with astonishment, for he had fancied that his
brother would make short work of Frank Merriwell. When it was all
over, Squinty fancied it must be a dream.
Then came a brief argument over the proper thing to do, and the
umpire decided to send Frank back to third, for all that Merry
insisted that the proper decision was to give him a run. However,
McCann swore he didn’t throw the bat, and there were several others
who asserted that the trick was done by an outsider. Of course, it
was a lie, but on the strength of it Frank was returned to third.
Merry had not said a word, but his fall had given his wrist a bad
wrench, and he was worried. Not many weeks before he had sprained
that same wrist severely, which prevented him from pitching in
several games, and now he was afraid it had been hurt again.
Dick had reached first, and only one man was out. Ready came to the
bat. Frank signed for him to fan at the first one, giving Dick a
chance to go down to second.
That signal was obeyed, and the boy scooted for second, while a
strike was called on Jack.
The catcher did not make a bluff at throwing Dick out.
Once more it seemed that Merriwell’s team would be sure to get in a
run.
“Leave it to me!” said Ready cheerfully. “I’ll bump the ball a mile
or two.”
“Bump that!” cried the catcher, as Nesbitt sent in another speedy one.
Jack went after it hard, but the curve fooled him, and he did not
connect.
“Try another,” he urged.
Nesbitt gave him an out drop, and he stopped his bat in time to avoid
the penalty.
Then came a drop that got down too quick for Ready, and two strikes
were called.
“It’s the same thing over again, Nes,” came from Waldron. “They can
never score.”
Ready was disgusted and desperate. He realized that he could not do
much trying to hit the ball hard, and so he resolved on an attempt to
sacrifice.
Unfortunately for Jack, he met the ball a trifle too hard, and it
went straight into the hands of Waldron, who picked it up clean and
whirled as if to throw it to the plate or to third. This forced
Frank back to third, and then Waldron quickly threw Ready out at
first.
Two men were gone, and now it did seem that the visitors had little
show of making a run.
“T’rowin’ dat bat between Merriwell’s feet’s wot kept ’em from
scorin’, Bud,” said Squinty, who was again on the bench at the side
of his brother.
“T’rowin’ dat bat at him is wot gave me dis eye!” growled Bud. “I
didn’t s’pose dat gilly could hit like dat, else I’d been ready fer
him.”
“Dat’s der way wid me,” said Jim. “I didn’t have no idea his kid
broder could fight like he can.”
“But I’ll settle wid Merriwell yit!” vowed Bud. “Next time I’ll soak
him hard!”
“An’ I’m goin’ ter git a crack at der kid,” asserted Squinty. “I’ll
knock his everlastin’ block off!”
Carson looked determined enough as he came up to hit. He felt the
responsibility of the occasion and wondered if he could meet it.
Something told him that the game was to be one in which a single lost
opportunity might stand for defeat.
Carson let two balls pass, one of which was called a strike. Then
he met one and sent it out on a line. The pitcher tried to dodge,
turning his back so that the ball struck him between the shoulders
and bounded off in a direct line to the short-stop, who gathered it
in and whistled it over to first.
Berlin was out, and again, for all of Frank’s energy and skill in
base-running, not a score had come in.
Frank covertly felt of his wrist as he walked into the box, finding
it sore and lame. Bowers hastened to get out in batting position, so
that Frank would not have a chance to limber up.
“Use him the way you did Hayward, Merry,” cried Hodge, giving the
sign for the double-shoot at the start.
Merry shook his head, fearing to try it with his wrist feeling as it
did.
Bart called for an out, and Merry sent one in. Bowers let it pass
without stirring.
The next one was a high in shoot, and the batter let that go by.
“Put ’em over,” he said.
Frank resorted to a high one, and Bowers got against it savagely,
driving out a single. He was not satisfied to stop on first, however,
but tried to follow Merry’s example in stretching the hit into a
two-bagger.
Swiftwing got the ball and lined it to second. Bowers slid at
Rattleton with his spikes, having found Harry was waiting for him
with the ball. The spikes cut Rattleton’s leg and tore his trousers,
but he placed the ball onto the runner, putting him out. At the same
time he was hurled down on Bowers, into whose stomach he drove his
knee with great violence.
Bowers lay still on the ground after the umpire declared him out, and
he was found to be unconscious.
“It’s his own fault!” declared scores on the bleachers and in the
grand stand. “He tried to spike Merriwell’s second-baseman. He got
just what he deserved.”
After a time Bowers revived, and was assisted from the ground, but he
was hurt so badly that it was necessary to pull him out of the game.
Bud McCann was given his place, for McCann could catch as well as he
could do anything else.
Webster, the next hitter, picked out a good one, and drove it almost
directly over the third base, but Ready made a lucky jab at it,
stopped it, got it up, and threw the fellow out at first.
“Ah-ha!” cried Jack, in apparent satisfaction. “Now we are getting
something to do! I thought Merry would not be greedy and keep all the
fun to himself.”
Joiler scowled blackly as he came up to hit. The manner in which the
game was running did not suit him at all.
Merry started with a high one, but Joiler would not go after it. Then
followed a quick out drop, but not even that one pulled the batter.
“Cut the plate, old boy!” cried Carson.
“Pup-pup-pup-put it right over!” came from Gamp.
“Hake nim mit it--I mean make him hit it!” spluttered Rattleton.
“Nobody walks,” rumbled Browning.
“Give us a little exercise, Frankie,” urged Ready.
“We’re longing for it,” piped up Dick.
Then Frank put it right over, and Joiler hit it a terrible rap, that
sounded like the report of a small cannon.
“Get after that for exercise!” he cried, as he scooted for first.
“Home run!” howled the crowd, again rising in a body and staring
after the ball.
The sphere was sailing toward deep center, and it seemed that it must
pass high over the head of Gamp, who had started on a run the moment
the hit came.
“He can’t touch it!” was the cry.
Indeed, it looked impossible for the long-legged youth to get
anywhere near the ball, but he was covering ground at great speed,
and he did not slacken a bit.
It required good judgment in such a case, and Gamp displayed it, for
he ran like a deer until he fancied the ball must be coming down,
when he turned his head and saw it sailing earthward above him.
Just as the ball was falling Joe made a great leap into the air and
clutched it. Down he went, turning completely over, but he came up
immediately, holding the ball in his hand.
The decision of the umpire could not be heard, for the uproar that
came from the spectators was the greatest yet heard on the ground
that day.
Never had a fielder in Philadelphia made such an astonishing catch,
and the crowd went wild with admiration.
Joiler ran all the way round the bases, and then would not believe it
when he was told the ball had been caught and he was out. He swore
Gamp must have had another ball, for he felt certain the right ball
had passed over Joe’s head at least twenty feet.