GETTING THE NINE IN SHAPE.
Lenning was well started on the trail to Ophir when Merriwell overtook
him.
“I’m mighty sorry,” was all Frank could say, as he dropped a hand on the
other’s arm.
“You see how it is, Merriwell,” Lenning returned, in a tense voice,
lifting his pale, drawn face for a quick look at his companion.
“Yes, I see how it is,” Frank acknowledged. “I had no right to put you
in that position.”
“I should have had sense enough not to come. Don’t blame yourself any.
And don’t find too much fault with Blunt and Handy. I mixed the dose for
myself, and it’s no more than right that I should swallow it.”
During the walk back to town Frank did what he could to soothe Lenning’s
injured feelings. Lenning listened quietly to his talk, and really
seemed in a better frame of mind when he and Frank parted in front of
the Ophir House.
While waiting for Clancy and Ballard to arrive, Frank had ample time for
a little hard thinking on the veranda.
At first he had been tempted to throw up the proposed game with Gold
Hill and have nothing further to do with it. He was beginning to see now
that such a move on his part would be childish.
He had had ample warning not to try to drag Lenning into the baseball
game. He had gone ahead in spite of the warning, and for the disaster of
the afternoon he alone was to blame.
When his reflections took stock of Blunt and Handy, he felt the hot
blood beginning to pound in his veins. But this was childish, too.
Lenning, not so very long before, had given everybody abundant excuse
for thinking of him just what Blunt and Handy thought.
After all, Lenning was only paying the score he had run up. It was a
debt he had to meet. When he was through with the battle, he would be
all the better for a few scars to remind him of it.
This train of thought put Frank himself in a more tolerant mood by the
time Clancy and Ballard got back to the hotel. They went in to supper
together, and, by tacit agreement, dismissed the incident of the
afternoon without any further discussion.
On the following morning there came a grind at the books under the eagle
eye of Professor Borrodaile; then, after dinner and early in the
afternoon, Frank and his chums went out to the baseball grounds and were
greeted by the whole team, as originally selected by Frank, with the
exception, of course, of Lenning and Shaw.
Mexican Joe was introduced to Frank by Brad. Joe was of about the same
height and build as Jode Lenning, and, in addition, the two had a facial
resemblance that was most remarkable. Naturally, the Mexican lad’s face
was of a swarthier hue, and this of itself made the difference between
them most pronounced.
While Benaway and Reckless pounded out flies and grounders for most of
the team, Merry and Joe were off to one side warming to the work with
jump balls, drops, and curves. Merry showed a skill and control that
caused the Mexican backstop to open his eyes, and Joe, on his part,
convinced Merry that he was all that Mr. Bradlaugh had cracked him up to
be.
That Thursday afternoon’s work brought Frank entirely under the spell
of the game--the sport he loved best of all. For weeks he had not had
the leather sphere in his hands, and now the very touch of it thrilled
him through and through.
On first meeting Blunt and Handy, Thursday afternoon, Frank was
conscious of a feeling toward them that was distinctly unfriendly; and
they, on their part, had as little to say to Frank as possible. But
when, at five o’clock, a grand rush was made for the bathrooms in the
gym, the magic of baseball had wrought its work, and every member of the
team was full of hope, and enthusiasm, and friendly consideration for
the rest of his teammates. Merriwell, Blunt, and Handy met and mingled
just as they had always done, and just as though the disagreeable
incident of the preceding afternoon had never happened.
This is not to say that Frank had forgotten Lenning, for such was far
from being the case. He was still sorry for the friendless chap, and
still eager to do him a good turn. What is more, he believed more firmly
than ever that many barriers between Lenning and his former friends
might be leveled if Lenning could have a part in Saturday’s game. It was
queer how that conviction persisted and intensified in Merriwell’s mind.
Friday afternoon the Ophir nine played a game with a scrub team. The
second nine was poor, for Merriwell had gathered in all the good
material, and the regular team had no difficulty in running up a good,
big score.
More and more Frank was pleased with the excellent work of Mexican Joe.
The backstop was about as talkative as a cigar-store Indian. He played
silently, swiftly, surely, and his signals showed such an intelligent
comprehension of the right balls that Frank’s admiration was aroused.
“You’re a corker, Joe!” he declared, slapping the Mexican youth on the
back when the afternoon’s work was over with.
A gratified smile crossed Joe’s swarthy face.
“You more of a corker as me,” he averred, and so eased himself of the
only remark he had made during an hour and a half of hard work.
When Frank and his chums got back to the Ophir House, late that Friday
afternoon, they were all tired, but happy and confident.
“We’ve got a fast nine,” declared Ballard, “and we’re going to put it
all over that Gold Hill team. You hear me!”
“They’re a snappy lot, no two ways about that,” agreed Clancy. “I hate
to give Darrel, Bleek, Hotchkiss, and the rest of that outfit the sort
of a jolt they’re due for to-morrow, but if they’re bound to have a game
they’ll have to take the consequences.”
“That’s right,” said Merriwell. “They’re going to make it pretty
interesting for us, though, and it’s just possible that they’ll open a
bag of tricks that will surprise us.”
“What sort of a pitcher is Darrel?” queried Ballard. “It’s mighty odd
that, all the time he was with us up Mohave Cañon, he never let out a
peep about being a ball tosser.”
“He’s good,” asserted Merriwell.
“How do you know, Chip?” demanded Clancy.
“I know because Darrel’s the sort that doesn’t do things by halves. If
he set out to learn to pitch, you can bet he has trained his ‘wing’ in a
way to make us sit up and take notice. There’ll be an exciting time on
the ball ground to-morrow afternoon. Bank on that, Red.”
“I’ll be disappointed if there isn’t, Chip,” grinned Clancy, “but you
and that greaser marvel are going to take care of Darrel and Bleeker,
with ground to spare.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right! When Darrel opens his box of tricks, Chip, he’ll find
that you have got a few on tap that are just a little better.”
“Thanks, old man,” laughed Merry. “It would be hard for me to do any
worrying while you’re around.”
“Everything’s going swimmingly, Chip,” remarked Ballard, “and there
hasn’t been a hitch since--since Wednesday afternoon.”
“That’s the trouble,” Frank answered. “I’m afraid, Pink, that the luck
is too good to last.”
This remark of Merriwell’s proved to be prophetic. A blow between the
eyes was dealt Merry less than an hour after supper. It wasn’t a
knock-out, but it came close to being one.
The blow arrived by messenger from the Ophir Mine, and was neatly
wrapped up in a note written by Burke, the superintendent. Merriwell was
alone on the veranda at the time the message came to hand, and he drew
up close to a lighted window so that he could see to read it.
At first he was dazed, and could hardly believe that he read aright.
After rubbing his eyes, he perused the note a second time. Then it was
that the dread news burst upon his realization like a thunderclap.
“Blazes!” he gasped, crushing the note in his hand and looking around
despairingly. “What the mischief are we going to do now? On the last
day, and in the afternoon, too! Why in the deuce couldn’t----” He bit
his words short and tossed his hands deprecatingly. “But it couldn’t be
helped, it couldn’t be helped!” he muttered.
Gloomily enough, he walked to a chair at the far end of the veranda and
slumped down into it. Who’d have thought that such a thing could
happen? The Ophir club, it seemed absolutely certain, was going to meet
its Waterloo! There did not appear to be a possible way out of that
tangle of hard luck.
While Frank was sitting there among the deep shadows of the veranda and
floundering helplessly in a mire of reflections, a horseman galloped up
to the hitching pole in front of the hotel, swung to the ground, buckled
his reins around the pole, and then bounded lightly up the veranda
steps.
The light from a window, shining over him, showed that he was a mere
lad. His face was open and frank, and a mat of thick, curly hair fringed
the bottom of his cap.
He paused on his way across the veranda to the hotel entrance. The
figure in the chair, at the far end of the veranda, had caught the
newcomer’s eye. Muttering an exclamation, he started toward the youth
with the bowed head and hopeless air.
“Hello, Chip, old pal!” the lad cried. “What are you doing out here all
by your lonesome?”
Merriwell, at the sound of that voice, was on his feet in a twinkling.
“Darrel, by Jove!” he exclaimed, happily surprised. “What brings you to
Ophir, Curly?”
“Business,” laughed Darrel. “I’ve got a letter for you from Colonel
Hawtrey.”
“I hope there’s no bad news in the letter. Hang it all, I’ve had enough
bad news for one night!”
“Nothing serious, Chip?” queried Darrel solicitously.
“I guess it wouldn’t strike you as being serious,” Merry returned, with
a short laugh. “Say, Curly, how’d you like to have Ophir present you
with that game to-morrow?”
“I wouldn’t like it. I don’t want Ophir to present us with anything but
the hardest game we Gold Hillers ever played. Do that, Chip, and I’ll be
blamed if I care who wins. But read this letter,” Darrel broke off,
handing the missive to Merriwell. “When you have done that, we’ll hold a
powwow. I’ve got something to tell you, pard, and like enough it will
surprise you. I don’t think the colonel has written anything that will
give you much of a jolt.”
“I’ve had my one big surprise for to-night. Curly,” said Merriwell, with
a rueful laugh, “so I guess that anything you can spring won’t take me
off my feet.”
He withdrew to the window to read the colonel’s letter. When he had
finished, he turned back to Darrel, with a low whistle, which proved
that there must have been something surprising in the letter, after
all.