PRINCETON’S STARTER.
The opening game of the college league was on. Yale and Princeton were
drawn up for the first struggle on the grounds of the latter nine.
Yale was in the field, with “Stew” Walbert in the box. The preliminary
practice was all over, and the umpire was opening a box to extract a
brand new ball.
Haggerty and Merriwell were on the bench in uniform. Browning was
on the bench in citizen’s clothes. Merriwell showed no signs of
nervousness. Browning was placid as a spring morning. Haggerty fidgeted.
Yale was not well represented by “rooters” from New Haven. There was
one lonesome little knot huddled on the bleachers, trying to look happy
and confident, but making a sad failure of it.
Yale men had stayed away. They felt that their team had no show at
all, and they did not have the heart to go down to Princeton and root
against a sure thing.
But there was plenty of blue in the grand stand. The young ladies there
showed that they admired the boys from Connecticut, and they were not
afraid to show their colors.
But the orange and black predominated even there. It seemed to be
everywhere. Princeton had a strong team, and men of good judgment
were confident she would start off a winner, flukes not taken into
consideration.
Walbert was pale as he faced the first Princeton batter. He had seen
long Joe Varney before, and he knew the “gangling” left fielder of the
“Tigers” was a “lacer.”
Walbert took a little time to look over the ground near his feet.
He planted his toe on the rubber plate, and then wound up with an
eccentric movement of the arm, and shot in a “twister.”
Varney went after the very first one, and got it!
Crack!--and away flew the ball toward right field, while the Princeton
lads opened up at the crack of the bat.
“Hurrah! hurrah! Tiger--sis-s-s! boom! ah!”
It was a hit. Everybody saw that in a moment, for Hal Faunce could not
gather it in, although he sprinted for it.
Down to first raced Varney. He was an exuberant fellow, and he flapped
his long arms, like the wings of a rooster, and crowed hoarsely as he
stood on the bag.
That caused another roar to go up. Coachers were on hand, and they
began rattling off their talk as soon as the ball was returned to the
pitcher.
Walbert tried to grin derisively, but there was a sick expression on
his face.
Bruce Browning grunted.
“Another one like that will break his heart, Merriwell,” he said. “He
may be a good man when things are going his way, but he can’t stand
grief.”
Frank said nothing. He sat there as if taking very little interest in
the game, but he was watching Walbert closely.
Beverage, Princeton’s short, was the second batter. He laughed as he
came to the plate; he laughed in Walbert’s face. The Tigers were full
of confidence. They had heard all about Yale’s weak points, and they
were looking for a snap.
Walbert resolved that Beverage should not get a hit off the first ball
pitched to him, so he sent him an outcurve that a four-foot bat could
not have reached.
The ball was so wide that Hodge had to fling himself after it, and he
lost his footing.
A great cry of delight and mingled derision went up.
Varney was scudding down to second, and Hodge was on his knees. But
Bart had stopped the ball, and now he turned. Without attempting to
get upon his feet, he drew back his arm and sent a liner flying toward
second base.
It was possible that every one but Frank Merriwell was surprised by
this attempt of the catcher to throw to second while on his knees. A
shout of contempt and merriment went up.
That shout turned to one of astonishment, for they saw the ball fly
through the air like a bullet, seeming to shoot on a dead line for
second. It did not seem that a man could make such a throw while on his
knees. It did seem like a miracle.
The coachers were so astounded that they forgot to shout for the runner
to slide, and Varney, who had seen Bart fall when he went after the
ball, believed there was no need of taking a chance of hurting himself
by sliding.
Wintz, Yale’s second baseman, came running toward the bag to cut Varney
off. He acted as if he expected to take a throw, but Varney laughed
aloud.
“Can’t fool me that way,” he said. “The trick is stale.”
But, a moment later he nearly fainted, for something shot before him
and struck with a plunk in Wintz’s hands. Then the second baseman
touched the runner, while Varney was still four feet from the bag.
Varney stopped on second and turned quickly. He was in time to see
Wintz snap the ball to Walbert and hear the umpire cry:
“Runner is out!”
Varney was dazed.
“Who threw that ball?” he gasped.
“The man behind the bat, of course,” laughed Wintz.
“I know better!” cried Varney. “He couldn’t do it! He was down! It
passed him. Some outsider threw it in. It is a blocked ball.”
But the umpire motioned for him to come in, and it dawned on him after
a time that in some marvelous manner the Yale catcher had thrown the
ball to second.
Hodge was cheered, and the wearers of the orange and black joined in
the ovation he received. The little group of Yale men fairly split
their throats howling their delight.
Pooler was one of the party from Yale, but he did not cheer as fiercely
as the others. He was disgusted, as well as astonished.
Walt Forrest shouted in Pink’s ear:
“That is a feather in Merriwell’s cap. Hodge has done good work all
along, but that throw was phenomenal. He is bound to become one of the
greatest college catchers ever known.”
“Rot!” grunted Pooler. “He’ll make a fluke sometime that will take the
wind out of his sails. He can’t keep it up always.”
Pooler had not been able to get many bets, as he had wished to bet
on Princeton, and everybody else seemed to want to bet the same way.
However, he had obtained a few by giving big odds, and all he regretted
was that he could not get more.
When Browning saw Hodge throw Varney out at second he lay back with
a deep sigh of satisfaction, and it must be confessed that Frank
Merriwell breathed easier, for it had seemed that the runner was sure
to make the bag safely.
When the shouting was over, Walbert again faced the batter. It seemed
that he had gained fresh confidence, for he got two strikes on Beverage
right away. Then he tried to “coax” the batter, and soon the score
stood three balls and two strikes.
Then Walbert put one over, and Beverage sent it whistling through the
Yale short as if nobody was there. It was a two-bagger, and the Tigers
howled their delight.
After that, a hit and an error filled the bases. Then Walbert went “up
in a balloon,” for he could not find the plate, and he forced two runs.
Haggerty had been warmed up before the game began, and now Frank lost
no more time in taking Walbert out and putting the little Williams man
in his place.
“What’s that mean, anyway?” growled one of the Yale rooters. “Why
doesn’t Merriwell go in? Is he too lazy?”
“He doesn’t dare!” declared Pooler. “He knows Princeton is out for
blood, and he doesn’t want to pitch a losing game.”
“I don’t believe that!” cried Charlie Creighton. “I don’t believe Frank
Merriwell is a coward.”
“Well, you won’t see him pitch to-day, if he can help it.”
Haggerty flung his cap on the ground by his side, held the ball up
before him with both hands, suddenly jerked it toward him, humped his
back in a queer manner, and sent it whistling over the plate.
The batter lined it out. The first ball the little fellow pitched had
been met squarely and sent flying toward left field.
The man on third held the bag and watched Joe Costigan get under the
ball. Costigan did get under it, waited for it and dropped it!
Then the man on third came scudding home, while the others moved up a
bag each, and again the bases were full.
“That is what comes of playing a man out of position,” thought Frank.
“Costigan is a fine third baseman, but he is no fielder.”
But he did not say a word aloud.
Haggerty did his level best, and succeeded in striking out the next man.
The Yale rooters cheered feebly.
The next batter put up a long fly, which Cal Jeffers captured after a
hard run, and the first half ended with Princeton “three to the good.”