IN THE GAME.
The regulars had been so dazed by Gamp’s marvelous catch that not a man
had moved toward the plate, so the umpire was forced to call:
“Batter up!”
Hal Faunce was the next man on the list. He left the bench and picked
out a bat.
“I’m going to do the same trick Jeffers did, just to see if that farmer
out there in left garden can repeat his trick,” declared Faunce. “Look
out for me, Merriwell.”
“That’s right,” cried a voice from the crowd of spectators; “line her
out, Fauncie. Jeffers showed how easy Merriwell is to-day. Anybody can
hit him.”
Frank continued to smile, but, mentally, he exclaimed:
“Think so, my fine fellow, if you like! I’ll have to see what I can do.
I know Hal Faunce’s weakness, and I’m going to lay for him.”
He sent in a “coaxer” to start with, but Faunce did not try to repeat
Jeffers’ trick by lining out the first one pitched, and the umpire
called a ball.
The next one was high, and the umpire called another ball.
“Merry doesn’t dare to let him hit it,” shouted somebody.
Frank smiled, motioning for Hodge to come under the bat.
Bart walked down and put on a mask. He had not smiled during all the
excitement. His face was unmoved, and he made a strong contrast to
Frank Merriwell, who looked as pleasant as if he were witnessing a free
show.
Taking his place close under the bat, Bart signaled for an out drop.
Merry shook his head, immediately assuming a position which Hodge
understood to mean that he would deliver a high inshoot.
In order to make the others believe he was doing all the signaling,
Bart made a fake signal, which did not mean anything at all.
With his greatest speed Frank sent a ball whistling through the air. To
Faunce it looked like a high straight one, and he could “feast on that
kind.”
He struck with all his strength, but the only resistance met by his bat
was that of the air, and it was such a surprise that Faunce was thrown
off his feet.
Plunk!--the ball was held in Bart Hodge’s glove.
“One strike,” called the umpire.
“Here! here! here!” laughed Frank. “Don’t be trying to throw yourself
at the ball, Fauncie. That won’t do. Hit it with the bat.”
Faunce picked himself up, looking red and disgusted.
“Oh, I’ll hit it next time!” he savagely declared. “I’ll knock the
peeling off it!”
“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “Knock the stitches out of it--if you
can. I don’t believe you can.”
Some one in the crowd groaned derisively.
“Hello!” said Merry, with perfect good nature. “Your friends are
groaning for you now, Hal. They know you have no show to get a hit.
Take my advice and wait for two more balls. Perhaps I can’t get ’em
over, and you will get a life on four.”
“Oh, you go to--Chicago!” flung back Faunce, nettled. “I’m going to hit
her next time, and you want to get off the earth if it comes your way.”
“All right, let her go.”
Bart was ready, and Merry sent another ball flying over the plate. It
was another high inshoot, and Faunce swung again, missing it as cleanly
as before, and nearly throwing himself down a second time.
“Two strikes,” called the umpire.
Frank laughed heartily, but Hodge was as mirthless and stern as before.
“What is he doing with you, Faunce?” cried Danny Griswold, from the
seats. “He seems to be making a monkey of you.”
“I’d make a monkey of you if I had you by the neck, you little runt!”
muttered the batter, under his breath.
Frank saw that Faunce was so angry that he trembled, and he felt that
it would be easy to strike the fellow out.
He was right, for he sent in a third high inshoot, and the batter went
after it just as hotly as he had gone after the others, missed it, and
was out.
“Sorry for you, old man,” said Frank, quietly. “Don’t believe I can
work that on you again.”
“I know you can’t!” snapped Faunce, as he walked to the bench.
“Costigan, come up and take your medicine,” laughed the scorer.
Joe Costigan, the left fielder, who had played third the season before,
advanced to the plate. He was a stocky fellow, a reliable man, and a
good hitter. It was said that he had no weak points at the bat.
Merry gave him a high swift one, and Costigan let it pass for a ball.
Then Frank made the same motion, but sent in a slop drop. Costigan
tried to get under it, struck too quick, and missed it.
“One and one,” called Capt. Hardy. “Merry is easy fruit for you, Joe.”
“I am not so sure of that,” muttered Costigan. “I have seen him fool
too many good men to think him easy.”
Frank feared Costigan more than he had Faunce, although the latter was
the more brilliant hitter. Costigan was not puffed up with too much
confidence and he was as steady as a mill.
“I’d give something to strike him out,” thought Merriwell.
He tried to “tease” the batter, but Costigan would not bite, and two
more balls were called.
“Now you have him in a hole, old man,” cried Phil Hardy. “He’s forced
to put it over.”
Frank thought swiftly just then. Which had he better do, put it over or
try a “fooler?” That was a question of some moment just then. He knew
well enough that Costigan was the kind of fellow who would take four,
instead of breaking his back for a hit, and laugh as he trotted down to
first.
But there was something else to be considered. Costigan had seen
considerable of Merriwell’s pitching, and he knew Frank was at his best
when forced to send them over. Merry had great control, and no one was
better aware of it than Joe Costigan. Frank decided that Costigan would
think that the next one was sure to be straight over and swift.
“He will try to line it out if it looks good,” decided Frank.
Then he made a delivery that seemed to put all the speed possible into
the ball, which started as if to go straight over the plate.
Frank had made no mistake in his reasoning. Costigan bit, but, as it
was an outcurve, he did not touch the ball.
“Two strikes!”
Bart tossed the ball back to Frank.
Costigan looked disgusted, and Capt. Hardy cried:
“It would have been a ball if you had waited.”
No one knew that better than Costigan himself.
Without delay Frank sent in another. This time it was an outcurve, but
it was started straight at the batter. Costigan was a trifle mixed and
he started back. Too late he saw what kind of a ball it was, and weakly
swung his bat at it.
He missed.
“Three strikes--man is out,” called the umpire.
Hodge flung down his mask and sent the ball rolling down toward the
pitcher’s box, while Merriwell and his “scrub” team came in from the
field.
“Who said they would bat me out of the box?” laughed Merry.
“Wait,” grinned Bink Stubbs, trying to appear pleasant and jovial. “The
game has just begun.”
“That was crafty work, Merriwell,” complimented Capt. Hardy. “I will
give you the credit of that.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, pleasantly. “Jeffers gave me a shock, and that
made me brace up.”
“That farmer out there on the left lawn gave all of us a shock,” said
Hardy. “How did he catch that ball?”
“With his hands,” smiled Frank.
“I didn’t think he caught it with his feet, but there was a time that
it seemed as if he had just as good show to catch it with his feet as
with his hands. How did you know he could play ball?”
“Oh, I’ve talked with him considerable, and I discovered that he knew
all the fine points of the game. Then he told me that he used to play
on a strong country team up in New Hampshire--sort of a league team.”
“Huah!” grunted Hardy. “That would bar him from playing with Yale, even
if he should prove fast enough. Without doubt he has taken pay for
playing.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“It would make him a professional, if he had. Say, how about that Fort
Worth business? I understand you and Hodge played with the team down
there. Were you paid for it?”
“Not a cent.”
Hardy looked relieved.
“I was afraid you had taken pay,” he said. “If you had been that
foolish, we would be in a scrape, for you might be barred as an
amateur, you know.”
“And that would give some of my very particular friends great
satisfaction,” smiled Frank. “But you need not let that worry you at
all. We played with Fort Worth for the sport of it, and did not receive
a cent for doing so.”
By this time the regulars were in the field. Ned Noon was behind the
home plate, with little Haggerty, the Williams man, in the box.
Jones was the first batter up for Merriwell’s side. He looked sad and
heartless as he advanced to the plate.
Haggerty flung his cap on the ground by his side. He stood with his
little legs spread, chewing gum rapidly and grinning. He was a pleasant
little fellow.
Ned Noon came up under the bat at the very start. It was plain he was
going to show what he could do.
Haggerty sent in a pretty one, and Jones stared in surprise when the
umpire called a strike.
“Too bad!” he sadly muttered, with a shake of his head. “Didn’t know it
was going over.”
Some of the spectators laughed at him.
“Look at the ball, Dismal,” cried one, “and you will make it weep.”
Haggerty grinned and poised himself again. He made a round arm
flourish, and sent in an outcurve.
Jones struck, but he could not reach the ball by a foot.
“Two strikes!”
The spectators began to laugh.
“Wait,” smiled Frank. “He may hit it all right.”
But Dismal was a trifle rattled, and he missed the third one, striking
out.
“Oh, say, Merry!” exclaimed Capt. Hardy, who was sitting on the bench
at Frank’s side; “this is going to be too much of a farce.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” was Frank’s careless retort. “You can’t tell about
that yet. You fellows may hold us fairly good play, so that there will
be some interest in the game. Don’t get discouraged as soon as this.”
“Come off! You know what I mean. That gang of yours hasn’t a show
against us.”
“Really! And you did not score the first time at bat! Your crust
surprises me, old man.”
“We didn’t score because that jay from New Hampshire caught a ball by
accident, and you struck out the next two men. You can’t keep that up.”
“I don’t know about that, either.”
“Say, you make me tired!” came warmly from the captain’s lips, for he
was aroused. “If you keep on, I’ll go in and take a hand myself.”
“Do it! It will be jolly sport to strike you out, captain.”
“Don’t get the swelled head, Merriwell! Don’t think you can strike
everybody out! That is what spoils a good pitcher.”
“You are right, Hardy,” nodded Frank, seriously. “The pitcher who is
forever trying to strike out every batter who faces him soon kills
himself. It is the man who holds them down to small hits who makes the
success.”
Hardy nodded, cooling down somewhat.
“That is sensible talk,” he said. “I was afraid you had a bug in your
nut. A fellow with a bug is N. G.”
Tom Thornton followed Jones. One strike was called on him, and then he
cracked out a hot one, which the shortstop fumbled long enough to let
the batter reach first.
Then, to the surprise of all, Joe Gamp took his place on the coaching
line near first.
“I swear if he isn’t going to coach!” cried a voice. “Well, this will
be a riot!”
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared Gamp, slapping his thigh. “If this ain’t
the gug-gug-gug-greatest pup-pup-pup-pup-pup-picnic I ever struck!
Why, this is more fun than chasin’ a yallar cuc-cuc-caow all over a
forty-acre pasture lot! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”
That laugh was infectious, others caught it, and the crowd roared.
“Fun!” shouted Harry Rattleton, from a position on the coach line over
by third. “It’s more fun than bodging dullets--I mean dodging bullets.”
Hodge was the third man to come to the bat.
Noon believed he knew Bart’s weakness, and he motioned for a slow drop.
Haggerty faced the batter.
“Nun-nun-nun-now you’re off!” shouted Gamp to the runner.
“Pup-pup-pup-play away off. He can’t cuc-cuc-catch you in a year! Oh,
what a good time! A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!”
Haggerty snapped the ball over to first, but Thornton got back all
right, and Joe Gamp roared again.
“It is a farce, isn’t it?” smiled Frank, speaking in Capt. Hardy’s ear.
“My team seems to be having fun with yours, old man.”
“Oh, wait some,” advised Hardy. “You will laugh out of the other side
of your mouth in a minute.”
“Just keep that little cuss tut-tut-tut-throwing, Tom,” said Gamp.
“Pup-pup-pretty soon he’ll get excited and tut-tut-tut-throw it a mile.”
But Haggerty did not make another attempt to catch the runner. He
suddenly sent in a straight one for Bart, making it high.
Bart struck at it--and missed.
Frank was surprised, for Hodge, as a rule, could hit high ones.
“Oh, he is easy,” cried Ned Noon, derisively. “We’ll have him going
after sky-scrapers in a minute.”
“So that is the man you have been recommending, Merriwell,” said Capt.
Hardy. “And he wastes his strength on a ball like that. Any boy would
have known that was a rod too high.”
“Wait a little yet,” advised Frank. “He may be a trifle anxious just
now, for he knows everybody is watching him. I’ll wager my life that he
shows up all right directly.”
“He hasn’t done anything in the game yet.”
“He hasn’t been given a chance, has he?”
“Well, not much of a chance,” Hardy was forced to confess.
Down by first Joe Gamp was stammering and haw-hawing, and it was
plain that his talk was getting Haggerty a little nervous. The grin
had vanished from the face of the pitcher, and his jaws were working
convulsively over the chew of gum. He tried Hodge on a low drop, but
Bart let it pass. Then he sent in a rise, and Hodge went for it.
To the surprise of both Haggerty and Noon, Hodge hit the ball. It was a
frightful crack, and away flew the sphere toward left field.
“Run!” roared the coachers, and Hodge raced down to first, while
Thornton went flying toward second.