HITTING ’EM SOME.
“Pwhat’s this?” cried Barney Mulloy, in amazement. “It’s a choild ye
put agin’ us? It’s no joke, ye’ll foind it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” laughed Frank. “When you’ve batted him
out of the box, I’ll hand you up a few twisters.”
“Thin ye’ll have a chance roight away,” returned the Irish youth
confidently.
There was a hush after the cheering, and the game was about to begin.
“Battery for the Merries, Merriwell and Hodge,” announced the umpire.
There was a volley of applause, and Dick Merriwell toed the slab. He
looked slender and out of place there, his face pale and his dark
eyes gleaming, while there was a set expression about his somewhat
wilful mouth. Up among the clustered Yale men there was a buzz of
comment.
“It’s a shame to drive such a gentle lamb to the slaughter!” said one.
“That’s what it is,” agreed another. “Why, that boy can’t hold down
Morgan’s team!”
“Merriwell must be daffy to put his brother into such a position,”
asserted a third. “Can it be that he is afraid to face Morgan’s men?”
“No!” exclaimed Inza Burrage at once. “Anybody here knows better
than that. When was Frank Merriwell ever afraid of anything? Dick
Merriwell is his brother, and he will win this game.”
On the edge of the gathered Yale men a man arose and said:
“If there are any betting men present, I’ll chance a few dollars that
the boy does not remain in the box four innings.”
“Bow-wow-wow!” barked a huge St. Bernard dog at the side of the
speaker.
“Correct, Nero!” cried the man approvingly. “You agree with me, I
see. That settles it. The boy will be batted out within four innings.
I’ll bet five, ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred on it.”
“Why doesn’t somebody take him?” breathed Inza, her cheeks flushed.
“Frank Merriwell knows what he is about, and he would not put his
brother into the box to be batted out in four innings. If I were a
man, I’d bet just as much as that gentleman wants to wager!”
Those words seemed to arouse some of the Yale crowd, and there was a
low buzzing of voices.
“She’s right,” said more than one. “Merriwell knows what he is
about. The kid will stay in more than four innings. Let’s call the
gentleman with the long green.”
Whereupon there was a hasty plunging into pockets, and the students
quickly formed a pool, handing their money over in fives and tens to
one of their number.
“Come, come!” cried the man with the dog; “will no one take me? Then
I’ll make it three innings. The boy will not be in the box for Yale
at the end of the first half of the third inning. Here is a cool
hundred that says so.”
A Yale man pushed his way through, saying:
“I think I’ll have to cover your century, sir. Will you be good
enough to nominate the stakeholder?”
“You?” sneered the man with the dog, looking at the beardless
student. “Why, when did you ever see a hundred?”
“If you’ll put your money up, I’ll guarantee to cover it.”
“Then let’s make it something worth while!” exclaimed the fellow, who
had heavy black eyebrows and a deeply lined face. “A hundred is too
small. Let’s make it two hundred.”
Now it happened that the Yale men had placed very nearly two hundred
dollars in the hands of the man deputized to place the bet, and he at
once said:
“That is quite satisfactory to me.”
“What?” cried the man.
“Put up your money,” said the Yale man quietly, “or close up your
countenance. Here is a gentleman who will hold the stakes. It is
Robert Harding, of New Haven, known to everybody. You cannot object
to him as a stakeholder.”
The man with the dog hesitated, frowning blackly. The dog barked
again.
“All right, Nero,” said the fellow. “It seems a shame to rob this
tender young lamb of his boodle, but he wants to give it away, and I
need it. Mr. Harding, here is my money.”
“Ah-ha!” cried the man with the dog. “A fine job? See them bump the
kid now!”
Just then Dick Merriwell sent the first ball over, and it seemed slow
enough for the batter to hit it easily. Packard missed it clean,
however, and Jack Ready cried:
“Why, it’s just as easy, Richard! You’ll keep that lad swatting the
ozone all day, my boy.”
“Give him another, Dick,” urged Carson from right field.
“That’s pitching ’em some,” rumbled Browning.
“He has hu-hu-hu-holes in his bat!” came from Gamp. “Don’t be afraid
of him.”
“Put ’em right over,” urged Frank.
Nearly the whole team was talking to Dick, and the boy needed it, for
he felt himself quivering all over. In vain he had tried to fling
aside that shaking feeling, but it clung to him most persistently.
Somehow, his heart was not in the game, and he felt that he was
going to be batted hard.
The next ball was wild, and the umpire called a ball. Then Dick tried
a high one, which Packard let pass.
“You’ll have to get it down, me bhoy,” said Barney Mulloy.
Dick sent in a swift in shoot, and Packard fanned again.
“That is doing pretty well!” roared the Yale crowd, while Inza
Burrage clapped her hands.
“Let him hit it!” urged Frank. “He won’t do any damage.”
“Put it right over the pan,” came from Ready.
“Ram it over the slubber--I mean slam it over the rubber!” Rattleton
cried.
“Yes, put it over,” muttered Packard.
Dick did not intend to put the next one right over, but he made a
miscalculation and did so.
Packard hit it, driving out a clean single between first and second.
“I knew it!” shouted the man with the dog.
“Bow-wow!” barked the dog.
Something seemed to smite Dick’s heart like a blow. A haze rose
before his eyes, across which he brushed his hand. He thought of the
peace and quietude of Pleasant Valley, far away, with the mighty
mountains heaped against the sky, and he longed for the sound of the
wind through the trees and the gentle murmur of Felicia’s voice. With
this feeling upon him, he was tempted to walk off the diamond and
refuse to pitch another ball.
That was not all, for something within him seemed crying:
“I hate baseball--I hate it!”
The ball was thrown in to him, but he did not see it, and it bounded
past.
Fortunately Hodge was watching and got the ball at once, preventing
Packard from taking second on the throw.
“All right, Dick,” said Bart, as he tossed the ball to the boy.
“Don’t let that jar you. They can’t do a thing with you.”
Bart had confidence in the lad, built of observation. At first he
had fancied it folly when Frank wished to pitch Dick in an important
game, but the work of the clever youngster had gradually won Hodge.
Still, Bart considered Frank far superior to any pitcher, and it was
Merry he wished to see in the box.
Dick took the ball and stood facing Mason, the next batter. These
fellows were Frank’s college mates and friends, and something told
Dick that they could bat against him with confidence.
“What’s the use to play ball?” flashed through the brain of the boy.
“If I couldn’t play at all would Frank care so much about me?”
“Make him pitch, make him pitch!” cried Morgan.
“The batter is ready,” said the umpire.
Still Dick stood there like one dazed.
“One ball!” exclaimed the umpire, making the decision as a penalty
for the delay.
“All right, Dick--all right,” said the calm voice of Frank. “Don’t
mind anything. Drop one over the rubber.”
The word “drop” was a signal, giving Dick the cue that Mason could
not hit a drop ball very well. The boy started, looked at Hodge,
nodded, and swung his arm.
Packard had obtained a good lead off first, and he scooted for second.
Bart gathered himself, and Mason swung his bat to bother the catcher,
Hodge, however, was not at all disturbed by the bat, and he sent the
ball down with a snapping short-arm throw.
“Slide!” shrieked the coacher.
Packard slid, Rattleton took the ball, and put it onto him hard.
“Out!” cried the umpire.
The crowd shouted.
“You should know better than to try that with Hodge behind the plate,
Packard!” yelled a Yale man. “Haven’t you seen him throw enough to
find out you can’t steal on him?”
Packard walked off with his head down. He had fancied his lead off
first was enough to let him down to second safely.
One strike had been called on Mason.
Frank saw that Dick was unsteady, but he fancied the putting out of
Packard might brace him up. This did not seem to be the result, for
the boy put the next one straight over and Mason smashed it hard.
Gamp made a great run for it but could not get under the ball. Mason
went over first at his best speed and turned for second, being told
to go along by the coacher.
Gamp got the ball and lined it in to second, but Hock was there
safely, having made a clean two-bagger.
“Well, what do you think about it now?” cried the sporting man with
the dog. “Everybody hits him hard! He won’t last an inning!”
Starbright stepped out to the plate.
“High and close, Dick,” said Frank, in a low tone, having run in till
he was near his brother.
Starbright’s weak point was a high in shoot, which was known very
well to Frank.
Dick nodded in a mechanical manner, and then proceeded to send over
one that was just waist-high.
Starbright smashed it. The ball went straight at Rattleton with
fearful velocity. Harry stood up to it, but it struck in his hands
and dropped out.
A shout went up.
Harry, however, recovered quickly, got the ball, and threw to
Browning, who held it just in time.
“Out at first!” cried the umpire.
“Dead lucky!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “If it had gone through
him, then the chap on second would have scored. Oh, they will pound
that kid to death!”
“I hope they won’t!” breathed Elsie, “but I’m afraid they will.”
“I’m not!” came from Inza. “Frank knows what to do, and his brother
must be all right, else he wouldn’t let him pitch.”
“But see how hard they have hit.”
“They haven’t scored yet.”
Mulloy was the next hitter, and Merriwell knew he was a bad man for
any pitcher to face, therefore he called to Dick and gave a sign for
an out drop, as that was Barney’s one weak point.
The heart of the boy had jumped into his throat when Starbright hit
the ball, but it fell back, and a feeling of relief came over him as
Rattleton saved himself on the play. Dick nodded to Frank, but shook
his head when Bart called for an in shoot. Hodge changed the sign and
Dick nodded.
The boy started the ball straight at Barney, who drew back a little
and then swung poorly, as he saw it was an out curve, succeeding in
fouling the ball.
“One strike,” said the umpire, as they were playing under National
League rules.
“That’s the stuff, Richard!” chirped Ready. “You’ve got him down pat.”
“Pat is not me name,” said Barney.
“It’s going to be Dennis in a minute,” chuckled Ready.
The next ball was high, and Barney came near going after it, but held
back just in time.
Another out drop was tried. This time, however, Mulloy saw it must
curve beyond the plate and refrained from swinging.
The second ball was called. Dick tried one on the inside corner, but
the umpire refused to give it.
“Now he must put it over!” shouted Packard, who was coaching.
Dick grew nervous, and failed to find the plate, which gave the Irish
youth a pass to first.
Gallup strode out to the plate, a grin on his homely face.
“Gosh-darn if I ain’t glad I left the farm!” he said. “Put the ball
over the old dishpan an’ I’ll wallop it.”
Dick looked toward Merry, but, knowing Gallup had no real weak point,
Frank hesitated. Then he gave a sign for the boy to use the jump ball.
Dick’s delivery was short and sharp, and he sent the next one in with
great speed. Gallup fancied it was coming about shoulder-high, which
led him to swing to meet it.
The ball took an awful jump, such as not even Hodge was prepared for,
struck the end of Bart’s mitt, and went past.
The runners merrily moved up a bag each.
Hodge was angry with himself, for he realized this was not Dick’s
fault.
Again the boy grew nervous, for now there were two coachers jabbering
away, and a hit meant a score--perhaps two.
With great deliberation Dick put the ball straight over the plate,
whereupon Gallup drove it hard and far into right field.
The coachers sent both runners, seeing at a glance that Carson had
little show of getting the drive before it struck the ground.
Berlin picked it up clean on the bound and threw to second, stopping
Gallup from going down, but both Mason and Mulloy came home, giving
the Mysteries two runs.
“Don’t mind that, Dick,” said Frank, seeing that there was a strained
look on the face of his brother. “Two scores can’t win this game.
We’ll hold ’em now.”
The man with the big dog laughed his satisfaction.
“Take the boy out!” cried several voices. “Take him out! Take him
out! Give us a pitcher! What did we pay our money for?”
Such cries might have dispirited a less determined lad, but not so
Dick Merriwell. There was something in the sound that caused the
lad’s teeth to clench like a vise, while his eyes glittered with an
inward fire and he stiffened up. Not a word did he say, but into his
heart leaped a sudden mad resolve to show them what he could do.
Opposition and ridicule did not unman him; instead, it put him on his
mettle.
Dismal Jones walked out with his club, sadly saying:
“It’s too bad! I hate to do it.”
Dick began with the jump ball, and Hodge took care to get up for it.
Jones struck at least a foot under the first one.
Bart called for a drop, but Dick shook his head and gave the batter
another exactly like the first.
Again the ball rose above Jones’ bat, and the second strike was
called.
“That’s pitching, Dick!” came the encouraging voice of Frank. “You
can keep it up.”
Now Dick had decided to use a drop next time, but the word “up” from
Frank was a signal for him to continue with the high ball, which he
did.
The third jump fooled Dismal just as the others had, and he fanned
out, the sphere plunking into Bart’s big mitt and remaining there.
The third man was out.