THE DAY OF THE GAME.
The whole of Saturday, Frank and his chums had planned to devote to that
contest with Gold Hill. Morning dawned bright and cloudless; but that is
not saying much, for bright and cloudless mornings prevail in southern
Arizona for three hundred and sixty days out of every year.
This was a land in which summer sports were to be enjoyed the whole year
round. For those who liked that sort of thing the climate had its
appeal, but Merriwell and his friends were beginning to think that the
rigor of frost and snow, at the usual time, would form a pleasant change
in that monotonous round of balmy weather.
Saturday was free from the grind which, for five days in the week, the
professor insisted on during the hours from eight to twelve. Nearly the
whole forenoon, therefore, Merriwell was free to spend on the clubhouse
grounds.
All his players had presented themselves, with the exception of Mexican
Joe. It was around Joe that the plot which concerned Lenning was to
revolve, and the absence of the catcher caused Frank some apprehension.
There was a little practice on the diamond, but not enough to tire the
players, and some time before noon Merry, Clancy, and Ballard were back
at the hotel. Already people were beginning to arrive in town for the
game. They came afoot, on horseback, and in buckboards and mountain
wagons.
There were miners and ranchers, Indians, Mexicans, and Chinamen. The
Bar Z Ranch, where Blunt worked, sent a big delegation of cowboys--and
they were all there to root for Barzy.
News of the game had traveled like wildfire over the cattle ranges and
the mining districts. Young Merriwell had been pretty much in
everybody’s eye during the time he had sojourned in Arizona, and much of
the outpouring was due to a desire to see the lad who had proved himself
such a worthy chip off the old block.
As a sporting event, the baseball game promised to be Merry’s farewell
performance. This, in itself, was a powerful lure in gathering the
crowds.
As early as one o’clock the movement set in from Ophir toward the
clubhouse and the athletic field. The game was not called until three,
but the eagerness of the people to secure good seats led them to make an
early start for the grounds.
“There’ll be some crowd on hand to see us land on the Gold Hillers,
Chip,” remarked Clancy, as they stood on the hotel veranda and watched
the flow of people along the main street of the town.
“Or to see the Gold Hillers land on us,” Frank laughed.
“Not at all, not at all,” insisted the red-headed chap. “It would be too
awful if we got stung at this athletic game just before we shook the
Arizona dust from our brogans for good. Here, where we have been
consistently victorious, we must wind up our activities with a success
that will eclipse all the others. Victory shall perch on the Ophir
banners, to the end that _finis coronat opus_ may be justly
exemplified. I repeat, friends and fellow citizens, that----”
“Choke off that old windjammer, Chip!” begged Ballard, coming out on the
veranda at that moment with his suit case. “He’s got a notion that he’s
making a public speech.”
“I’ve got other notions, Pink, if it comes to that,” said Clancy, giving
his chum a look of intense disapproval. “One of them is that you’re
little Billy Buttinski, and spoil many a good thing because you’re
jealous.”
“Jealous--of you? Why, you red-headed snipe----”
“Tut, tut!” interposed Clancy, waving his hand restrainingly, “men have
been shot for less than that. But don’t push me too far, Pink, don’t
push me too far.”
Ballard was about to reply, keeping up his end of the good-natured give
and take, when he caught sight of some one hurrying toward the hotel
along the sidewalk.
“Here’s our prize greaser, fellows!” he announced. “Wonder why he wasn’t
around this morning?”
“Knows he didn’t need the practice, I guess,” answered Clancy. “If the
rest of us can measure up to the standard set by him and Chip, Gold Hill
won’t get a score across the pan.”
Frank got his eyes on the approaching backstop and watched him keenly
and critically. The appearance of the lad was the first intimation he
had had of the success of Darrel in carrying out the plot of the
preceding evening. Now, as his eyes followed the catcher along the
sidewalk and to the steps of the veranda, Merriwell experienced a thrill
of profound satisfaction. Darrel, it was evident at a glance, had done
his work wonderfully well.
Clancy and Ballard had not been taken into Merry’s confidence regarding
that note which had arrived from Burke. Had they been with Frank at the
time of its receipt, very likely they would have been given the whole
disturbing message. Later, after his talk with Darrel, Frank was glad
that his chums were in ignorance of Burke’s note. Now he was purposely
keeping them in the dark.
“Howdy, Joe!” shouted Clancy. “You’re looking as husky as a keg of
nails.”
The other’s swarthy face parted in a genial smile; but, true to his
taciturn disposition, he had nothing to say in reply.
“Think we’re going to win, Joe?” queried Ballard, by way of testing the
catcher’s confidence.
The other ducked his head emphatically.
“That’s right, Joe,” grinned Clancy, “I wouldn’t talk if it’s painful.
If you’d only learn the deaf-and-dumb alphabet you could express
yourself with your hands. I believe you’d be a fluent talker if you’d
use your fingers.”
The catcher continued to grin expansively, but could not be coaxed into
doing any talking.
Merriwell had been watching Clancy and Ballard with sharp eyes while
they were concerning themselves with the backstop. An expression of
humorous relief crossed his face, and he reached out, caught the
newcomer by the arm, and drew him to one end of the veranda. From the
motions the two indulged in, Clancy and Ballard could see that they were
going over the signals.
“I don’t see the use of that,” grunted Clancy. “Joe had ’em down pat
yesterday afternoon, and it’s a cinch he wouldn’t forget ’em this
quick.”
“Nothing like being sure,” said Ballard.
For nearly half an hour, Merriwell and the catcher continued to go
through their signals and to converse in low tones. At the end of that
time, Mr. Bradlaugh came along in his car to take the lads to the
grounds.
“All aboard, my lads!” he shouted.
As they piled into the car, Frank noticed that Mr. Bradlaugh was eying
the catcher with a strange, dubious expression. For a moment Frank
experienced a thrill of dismay, but he was reassured the next moment
when Mr. Bradlaugh remarked:
“Joe will show them to-day what a real high-class fellow behind the bat
can do in helping to win a game. I hear that you’re more than pleased
with your catcher, Merriwell?”
“I am,” Frank answered, with emphasis.
When the car reached the grounds, grand stand and bleachers were
crowded. Automobiles were lined up beyond the stand, and every point
that commanded a good view of the diamond was filled.
Gold Hill was well represented, and more than half of the grand stand
was occupied by stanch supporters of the rival team. Gold Hill and Ophir
did a lot of friendly joshing back and forth, and the yells and cheers
rang in Frank’s ears as he got out of the car and hurried to the
dressing room in the gym.
All the rest of the men who were to play with the Ophir team, or to sit
on the benches as substitutes, were clad in their uniforms, and were
waiting for Frank and those with him to arrive. They were greeted
warmly, and Blunt slapped the backstop on the shoulder as he passed him
with his dingy old suit case.
“We’re expecting great things of you, you old greaser wonder!” exclaimed
the cowboy.
“That’s what, Joe!” seconded Handy.
“And you’re not going to disappoint us,” added Reckless. “I know that
just as well as I know that I’m alive.”
The catcher’s reply was a wide smile, but not a word. As he passed on
and vanished into the dressing room, Merriwell also smiled--but it was a
smile of another sort.
While Merry was getting into his baseball togs, a din of frenzied
cheering was borne to him from the grand stand and bleachers. He knew,
from the mere volume of sound, that the Gold Hill team had appeared from
their dressing rooms under the grand stand, and had scattered over the
diamond to warm up.
A few moments later, Merry stepped out among his players, gathered them
around him, and calmly scrutinized their flushed and eager faces.
“We’ve had two days of practice, fellows,” said he, “and we’re going up
against a team that has been in harness for weeks. But don’t let that
bother you. It’s the spirit you put into your work that counts. Be on
your toes every minute. Come on!”
He flung open the gym door, bounded through it, and started at a trot
toward the ball field. The backstop was at his side, and close at his
heels trailed Clancy and Ballard. After them came the rest of the team.
A broadside of cheers went up from the spectators. Gradually the volume
of sound separated into staccato notes and pauses, and clear and high
rolled the chant, “Merry, Merry, good old Merry!”
Frank flushed. He wondered what that crowd would think if it knew what
“good old Merry” had up his sleeve?
Off to one side, Darrel and Bleeker were working out. Both waved their
hands in friendly greeting to Merriwell, as he and his swarthy-faced
catcher began their preliminary practice.
While passing the balls to his companion, Merry was taking note of the
work of the Gold Hillers. It was snappy, and quick, and true, and the
way the horsehide flashed around and across the diamond was enough to
make the Ophirites wonder a bit how that game was going to come out.
Darrel called in his men, and Frank sent the Ophir players into the
field. Then began an exhibition which was not calculated to inspire much
confidence in the Ophir partisans. Blunt muffed a throw from the home
plate, Spink juggled a fly that had been lifted right into his hands,
and Brad and Handy crashed together in trying to smother a low drive,
and caused a ridiculous flurry between third base and second. Everybody
seemed bent on showing just what a poor performer he could be, on
occasion, and there were more jeers than cheers while Ophir was warming
up.
Frank was thankful to have the comedy of errors cut short by the umpire,
who had produced the little pasteboard box and was shaking the new ball
out of it. The backstop was getting into his chest protector and turning
his cap, preparatory to putting on the mask. Another moment, and Frank
was in the pitcher’s box and the umpire had tossed him the white sphere.
“Play ball!” came the command.