BEFORE THE GAME.
Mr. Jack Hazard proved an adept advertiser. The morning papers on the
following day were “worked” scientifically for space, and a number of
them told how Merriwell’s team had been challenged by the manager of
another team made up mainly of fast college men, many of them knowing
Merriwell well and being able to bat him hard. Still, in relation to
the challenging team an air of mystery was maintained, and the name
of not one player was mentioned.
Merriwell and his team reached the Polo Grounds early and entered
their dressing-room, where they proceeded to change their street
attire for baseball uniforms, taking their time about doing so.
“This is the first time in baseball,” said Merry, “that I ever went
up against a team I knew absolutely nothing about. It’s a very
remarkable affair, to say the least.”
“It has piqued my curiosity till I feel decidedly peaked,” put in
Ready. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find out we were up against
a lot of old leaguers.”
“Perhaps it is the New York team,” rumbled Browning.
“There are lots of college men on the New Yorks!” laughed Frank.
“One, anyhow,” said Carson.
“And they have nearly witched his ping off--I mean pitched his wing
off,” from Rattleton.
“It is not the Giants,” decided Merry. “But it’s a hot team, and I’ll
bet almost anything on it. I understand there is betting on the game.
Somebody must know the kind of a bunch we’re up against, else there’d
be no taking chances.”
“I understand,” said Carson, “that the odds are against us.”
“Who is flashing all the boodle?” inquired Ready. “If I can find
the sports, I may venture a mere bagatelle of eight or ten thousand
dollars.”
“Gambling is a vicious thing,” declared Greg Carker. “It is the cause
of no end of poverty and suffering. The rich man gambles, and the
poor man follows his example. Thus the rich man pushes the poor man
still lower. It is the duty of all who have at heart the welfare of
their fellow creatures to frown on the vice.”
“Lecture by G. Carker, promoter of earthquakes!” chirped Ready.
“Unplug your ears and listen.”
“How is your arm, Merry?” asked Hodge, in a low tone.
“Rather poor,” confessed Frank. “I’ve never recovered from that
sprained wrist.”
“But you can pitch to-day?”
“If absolutely necessary. We’ll find out first what sort of a
gathering we are to encounter.”
“You must pitch! It’ll never do to run Dick against a powerful
Eastern team.”
“There are just as fast teams in the West.”
“Perhaps, but there is something the matter with Dick. Haven’t you
noticed it?”
“He’s a trifle rattled by New York.”
“It’s worse than that.”
“Worse? How?”
“I believe he is homesick.”
“Perhaps so; but he’ll get over that. Wait till the game starts and
he gets into it. He’ll forget everything but baseball.”
Still Bart urged Frank to go into the box. Hodge had the utmost
confidence in Merry, even though Frank’s wrist was lame.
The time came for them to go out onto the field. Old Joe had been
silently smoking in the dressing-room, but, at the last moment before
going out, he spoke to Dick.
“Play heap smart to-day,” he said. “Show what um can do. You give um
big s’prise.”
“I do not feel like playing baseball,” confessed the boy. “I cannot
forget Pleasant Valley and home.”
“Great warrior him forgit ev’rything. You got Injun heart. No forget
it.”
Then he touched the boy in a queer way with his hand, and Dick
straightened up, saying:
“I’ll not forget it, Joe. I’ll try not to make you ashamed of me, see
if I don’t.”
“Much good!” grunted Crowfoot.
“You are to sit on the bench with us,” said Dick. “Frank said you
were.”
“Joe him be there.”
“When I feel like quitting I shall look to you. I shall think of the
things you have taught me. That will make me play.”
“Injun Heart do that same as if him life be on game and him make um
much wonder.”
“I will! I will!”
“Are you ready, fellows?” called the voice of Merriwell.
“All ready.”
“Then we’ll go out. Come on.”
They followed him, and soon discovered that a great throng of people
had gathered on the bleachers and in the grand stand, while a steady
stream was coming through the gate.
As Merry’s team appeared a shout went up.
“There they are!”
“There’s Merriwell!”
“Hooray for Frank Merriwell!”
“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!”
Round the field ran the cheering. It was a surprising reception for
Merriwell to receive there in New York, and he afterward confessed
that it “bumped” him.
But when the general shouting had ceased there came another sound
from the bleachers on the right of the field. It was the Yale cheer,
ending with Merriwell’s name, and it was shouted through more than a
hundred megaphones in perfect chorus.
Frank looked, and there, gathered in a body, were a great throng of
Yale men. Where they had come from he could not understand, but they
were there, and they cheered for the hero of Old Eli, led by several
men, who wildly flourished their arms.
But what surprised Frank more than aught else was the fact that in
the midst of these men were two girls, dressed in white, wearing the
Yale blue and flaunting Yale banners.
At sight of them Frank almost staggered. Then he stood quite still
and stared hard.
“Good Lord!” he gasped. “Can it be?”
He found it difficult to believe the evidence of his eyes, but a
moment later he joyously muttered:
“Inza and Elsie! They are here together!”
He grasped Bart and turned him toward the group, saying hoarsely:
“Look there, Hodge! It will do your eyes good!”
Bart saw them, and his dark face flushed, while his eyes gleamed with
untold pleasure.
“Elsie!” he breathed. “At last!”
“Talk about surprises!” said Merry. “Isn’t this one?”
“Rather!” Hodge admitted, waving his hand to the girls.
They waved back, both of them almost beside themselves with delight.
“Where are our antagonists?” inquired Jack Ready, looking around.
“They will be ready to practise directly,” said the smooth voice of
Mr. Hazard, as that individual appeared. “You may take the field
first, gentlemen.”
“Let’s get out, fellows,” said Frank, recovering himself.
At a signal Merry’s team trotted onto the field for practise. Dick
Merriwell went out at short, which made it apparent that Frank
intended to pitch.
The practise of the team was sharp and snappy from the very first,
and it brought frequent bursts of applause from the witnesses.
Old Joe Crowfoot was on the bench, still pulling at his pipe, after
his usual calm manner.
Dick quickly entered into the work, and his cleverness in handling
everything that came his way showed that he was pretty fast, in spite
of his years.
After nearly fifteen minutes of practise Frank called his team
in. Barely had the men walked in to the bench, when out from the
dressing-room came the other team. They were dressed in yellow
uniforms, and they trotted straight out onto the field.
Then from the Yale crowd came another cheer. Frank Merriwell was,
indeed, surprised.
“What’s this?” he gasped. “What have they sprung on us? Will you look
at that crowd?”
“I will,” nodded Jack Ready. “But I’m nearly knocked stiff with the
blow. There’s Gene Skelding on third!”
“And Starbright on first!” from Hodge.
“Mason at short!” rumbled Browning.
“Oliver Packard on second!” ejaculated Carson.
“Dud-dud-Dismal Jones in left field!” stammered Gamp.
“Hans Dunnerwurst in right!” said Frank.
“Barney Mulloy catching!” gasped Rattleton.
“Ephrum Gug-gug-gug-Gallup out in center!” said Gamp.
“And Dade Morgan for a pitcher!” muttered Hodge.
The Mysteries were made up of Frank Merriwell’s former comrades and
college friends.
When he had recovered from his astonishment Merry began to laugh.
“This is a fine old joke!” he said. “It’s a put-up job! Now I begin
to understand the meaning of that collection of Yale fans. This thing
was cut and dried in advance. Well, there will be warm doings around
here to-day.”
“And we propose to do your team, Mr. Merriwell,” said Jack Hazard,
who had approached Frank. “These fellows know you, and they say you
will be easy, as your team is not nearly as strong as ours.”
This caused Frank to laugh again.
“It’s a good thing to have plenty of confidence,” he observed, “but
I think I’ll take a turn at surprising somebody.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you wait a while you will find out.”
The practise of the Mysteries was quite as sharp and snappy as that
of Merriwell’s team had been, setting the crowd to speculating once
more.
Morgan began to warm up to pitch, but Frank tossed a ball to Dick,
saying:
“Loosen up your wing a trifle, Richard, while I flip with Mr. Hazard
to see who starts the game.”
They drew aside, and Hazard spun a coin, which twinkled in the
afternoon sunshine when it fell to the ground.
“Heads!” Merry had said.
“Heads it is,” said Hazard. “Your choice.”
“We’ll take our outs.”
“Good! We’ll fall on you in the first inning hard enough to give you
some worriment.”
Dick was throwing to Hodge, and Merry passed him on his way to speak
to Mulloy and Morgan.
“Frankie, it’s a soight fer sore oies to see yez!” exclaimed Barney,
who had grown stocky and muscular. “Oi’m glad to grasp yer fin again,
me bhoy.”
Merry shook hands with Barney.
“I am glad to see you,” he declared. “How did you fellows patch up
this piece of business?”
The Irish youth grinned and winked.
“It’s watchin’ yez we’ve been,” he confessed; “an’ we loaded a gun
fur yez whin ye got this way. Oi hate t’ do it, Frankie, but we’ll
have t’ beat yez this day.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over that,” returned Merry.
He met Morgan, extending his hand.
“Dade, I presume you’re going to pitch against us?” he said.
“I believe so,” said Morgan, with that sweet smile, his eyelids
drooping. “But it’s to be clean sport.”
“I should hope so, with these teams playing. Still, I can understand
that it will be for blood.”
“Of course.”
After the regular practise, the Mysteries came in from the field.
Some little time was spent in handshaking, while the great bunch of
Yale men on the bleachers sang, “Here’s to Good Old Yale.”
Hans Dunnerwurst toddled up to Merry, extending his pudgy hand, as he
cried:
“How you vos, ain’d id? You vos glatness to seen me, I pelief. Yaw!
I’d peen a regular surprising barty. Yaw!”
“And you still have the idea that you can play ball?” said Merry.
“Why, Hans, you know better!”
“Vait!” squawked the Dutch lad. “Vait till I show you vot I can dood!
You vill peen so surbrised dot your eyes vill sdick oudt uf mine
headt.”
“You always did have a barrel of luck,” said Merry, “but luck will
not win this game.”
“The Lord be with us!” droned Dismal Jones, his face as long as ever.
“How are you, Merriwell?”
“Gol-darn my squash!” cried Ephraim Gallup, as he came straddling up.
“I’m glad I’m not to hum on the farm, b’gosh!”
Starbright was on hand to grasp Merry’s hand in both his own broad
palms, his blue eyes beaming. Mason came round quietly, and Oliver
Packard made no demonstration.
“Play ball!” called the voice of the umpire.
Out onto the field trotted Merriwell’s team.
And, to the astonishment of everybody, Frank Merriwell did not go
into the pitcher’s box.
He sent Dick in!