POOR SUPPORT.
Frank was perfectly cool and composed, and never more thoroughly master
of himself than when he stepped into the box. He knew that fate had
played him up prominently while he had been in that part of the country,
and that what fate had failed to do the florid imaginations of a good
many people had been quick to accomplish.
Many of the spectators, no doubt, expected to find in young Merriwell a
pitcher who was half a wizard and half a magician. Frank realized that
onlookers of this class were due for a severe disappointment. He was
glad of it, for he had no patience with the wild stories about him which
had been flying over that section of the country.
Bleeker was the first man to toe the plate for the Gold Hillers. Clancy,
from first, had to do all the ragging, for the backstop remained as
silent as usual.
“Now for the first victim, Chip. This is Bleek. You know Bleek? Well,
he’s going to look pretty bleak when you get through with him. Start the
circus!”
“Don’t be hard on your old friends, Chip,” grinned Bleeker.
There was an air of jaunty confidence about Bleeker which suggested
three-baggers and home runs. Frank believed that this was a good place
to take a reef in Bleek’s aspirations.
He led off with a jump ball, and the speed behind it made the spectators
jerk themselves together wonderingly. The sphere spanked into the
backstop’s mitt with a report like that of a rifle. Somewhere on its
erratic course Bleek had taken a swat at the deceptive object.
“Strike!” shouted the umpire.
A chorus of jeers went up from around the diamond. Bleek, hardly
realizing what had happened, stood looking foolishly at the end of his
bat.
“Wake up, old man!” warned Darrel from the bench. “Mind your eye, and
don’t reach for the wide ones.”
From the way Merry started the next ball it looked like it was going to
be another lightning express, but when it crossed the plate it was
jogging along like a slow freight. Bleek, expecting something speedy,
smashed at the sphere before it was within a yard of him.
“Strike two!” barked the umpire.
A roar of laughter floated out over the field from the Ophirites in the
grand stand and on the bleachers.
“What’s the use?” yelled some one. “He can’t see ’em!”
“Pound it on the nose the next time, Bleek!” begged a Gold Hiller.
“Kill it! Kill it!”
“Baste it out!”
Bleeker nerved himself for a supreme attempt, but in vain. Merry handed
him an inshoot which found the hole in his bat, and he tramped to the
benches with a flush of chagrin.
“Merry’s certainly all to the mustard,” he grunted, as he dropped down
among his teammates. “He’s got some fancy capers that will fool the best
of ’em. If Hotch connects with the ball it will be an accident.”
“Watch Merriwell, fellows,” urged Darrel. “See how he does it, then
maybe you’ll be ready for him when you go in for your own stickwork.”
Obedient to orders, the Gold Hill players studied Merry and tried to get
“wise” to his curves. But, just as they thought they had discovered
something, they saw something else that proved the supposed discovery
wasn’t any discovery at all.
Hotchkiss, second baseman for the Gold Hillers, was the next man up. He
was a left-handed batter, and Frank, who could pitch equally well with
either hand, fell back on his left wing.
“Jumpin’ tarantulers!” boomed a cowboy. “Watch him, will ye? He’s usin’
his south paw!”
The first was a lightninglike bender, which coaxed a strike out of
Hotch.
“That’s the way to start ’em, Chip!” cried Brad. “One, two,
three--that’s the style.”
“Darn it, Chip,” cried Hotch, “why don’t you gi’ me a chance? Ain’t you
a friend o’ mine?”
The catcher signaled for a wide one, but Hotch was making good use of
his eyes, and allowed it to pass.
The third cut a corner of the plate. Hotch fouled it back of third base,
and had the second strike called on him.
The next signal called for a drop. Frank started it pretty high, and
Hotch grinned and shook his head. Then he looked dazed when the umpire
called him out.
“Rotten!” grunted Hotch, throwing himself down beside Bleeker. “That
last ball was over my shoulders.”
“You’re wrong, Hotch,” answered Bleek. “It was lower than that. Now,
El,” he shouted, as the captain of the team went to bat, “lace it out.
For the love of Mike, show Merriwell we’re alive.”
Darrel just managed to do that. He connected with the second one over,
and Merry smothered it without leaving his tracks.
The Ophirites began to whoop and howl. Their boys were making good, and
they jubilated as only miners and cowboys can.
The first man to face Ellis Darrel for Ophir was the backstop. He
stepped into the batter’s box with a smile, and cheerfully rapped out
the first one over. A fellow named Dart, who played shortstop for the
Gold Hillers, cuffed it down and snapped it to first. The ball beat the
catcher by a yard.
“Tough luck, Joe,” commiserated Clancy, himself stepping to the plate.
“Now,” he called, “put one over, Darrel, and I’ll show you what I can
do.”
Darrel had good control and plenty of speed. Clancy decided to let the
first ball pass, and then listened while the umpire called a strike on
him.
“Don’t go to sleep, Red,” laughed Bleeker.
“Just getting waked up for the next one,” chuckled Clancy.
“Here she is.”
Clancy sawed the air, and spank went the ball in Bleek’s mitt.
“Not waked up yet?” jeered Bleek. “Well, well! How long are you going to
wait?”
“I guess I’ve waited long enough,” said Clancy, and his bat met the next
one on the nose.
It sailed over Darrel’s head, was muffed by Hotchkiss at second, then
picked up and sent to first like a streak of greased lightning. It
looked, from where Merriwell sat, as though Clancy had beat it out. But
the umpire decided otherwise, and the crestfallen Clancy jogged away to
the bench.
Merriwell was next.
“Be easy with this one, El,” suggested Bleeker.
“It would be a feather in my cap if I could fan him,” laughed Darrel.
“That’s been done a good many times, Curly,” Merriwell grinned.
The first ball was a strike. It looked a little wide to Frank, and he
did not reach for it.
The second ball was a wide one, and so was the third. The fourth ball
was just about where Frank wanted it, and he smashed it for a couple of
bases.
“Whoop!” roared Barzy Blunt; “we’re off, we’re off! Three tallies,
pards! I’ll not be satisfied with anything less than three runs this
inning.”
Ballard was the next one up. Merriwell stole third, and he’d have got
home if Ballard had given him a chance. But Ballard fouled once back of
the home plate, and then struck out.
“That’s awful, Chip,” groaned Ballard, passing the pitcher’s box on his
way to center field.
“Never mind, Pink,” answered Frank. “We’re hitting Curly, and next time
we’re at bat I believe we’ll do something.”
Lenaway, left fielder for the Gold Hillers, was the next man to confront
Merry.
“Remember what you did before, Chip!” called Clancy. “Don’t try to hog
the whole game yourself. Start a man this way and give me a chance to
limber up. Start something, old man.”
Lenaway swung at the second ball. He must have caught it on the handle,
for it dropped in front of the plate and rolled briskly down toward
Clancy, just inside the path.
“It’s mine, Chip!” yelped Clancy, and darted at the rolling sphere.
The red-headed chap booted the ball, and by the time he had laid hold
of it, Lenaway was roosting comfortably on first. Frank had run to cover
the base. He now went back to the mound, wondering what in the deuce had
got into Clancy.
“Wow!” cried Lenaway. “You can handle a paddle, Red, a heap easier than
you can field a grounder.”
“Don’t talk to me,” grunted Clancy, in a spasm of self-reproach, “I’m
sore enough.”
“Well, return the ball so I can take a lead.”
“There it goes,” and Clancy tossed the sphere to Merry.
“Now, then,” shouted Darrel, coming down to the coaching line back of
first, “nobody down, fellows! On your toes, everybody. Ginger up, and
we’ll make a showing. Go down toward second, Len--go on! I’m here to
keep you out of danger.”
Dart, the shortstop, picked up a bat and stepped to the plate. Merry got
him for three balls and two strikes, and then Dart lined one out toward
Brad. It was an easy one, but Brad’s fingers were all thumbs, and the
ball went through him like a sieve. The fielder raced in and picked up
the ball, whipping it over to second just an instant too late. Dart
reached the bag, and Blunt, apparently, forgot that Lenaway was on
third.
“The ball, Barzy!” cried Merriwell.
Sudden realization of the fact that the man on third had taken a
dangerous lead toward home startled Blunt. He threw to the plate instead
of to Merry, and he threw wild. While the catcher was chasing the ball
Lenaway got across the first score, and Dart went to third.
There was much glorying in the Gold Hill section of the grand stand. No
one out, one run, and a man on third! Certainly the prospects were
gratifying.
Mingo, the Mexican first baseman, followed Dart to bat. Merry struck him
out, and then expeditiously fanned Rylman, the third baseman.
Doolittle, right fielder, belied his name, and hoisted a fly to Spink in
left field. Spink played beanbag, with it, dropped it, picked it up,
then dropped it again. During the farce, Dart darted home and Doolittle
gained second.
Stark, center fielder, fanned, and Doolittle died on third. But ragged
support had given the Gold Hillers two runs. The swarthy-faced backstop
pulled a long face and Merriwell walked to the bench, trying to figure
out the errors in the first half of the second. They were so many that
he had to give it up.