FRANK IN THE BOX.
“That is easy,” said Charlie Creighton, hopefully. “Our boys will tie
that without a struggle.”
But he was mistaken. Nat Finch, the Princeton wonder, did not do a
thing but strike out three men in succession, while the great crowd
roared its delight.
“That settles it!” said Pooler. “Those are three top-enders, the best
batters on the team. If he can make monkeys of them like that, what
will he do with the weak batters?”
The rooters were silent. They were discouraged. Not a few of them
wished themselves back to New Haven.
Frank was the only one who seemed calm and unruffled. Bart Hodge was
pale.
“That fellow Finch is a wizard, Merry!” he huskily exclaimed. “I don’t
believe anybody else can fool Cal Jeffers like that. Why, Jeffers is a
hitter!”
“That’s right,” nodded Frank, quietly. “But there is a question.”
“Eh? What sort of a question?”
“Can Finch hold this up?”
“He has a reputation.”
“I don’t care. I’ll go you something that he slumps before the game
is over. He is a strike-out pitcher. He likes to do that trick, as it
attracts attention to him. That is what will count against him.”
“We don’t have one show in a thousand unless you peel off and get into
the game.”
“That is foolishness.”
“Not a bit of it. He has taken the wind out of the fellows.”
Frank sent Haggerty into the box again. The little fellow dreaded what
was before him, but he went out resolved to do his best.
The first man up got a hit, while the next man got first on balls. Then
the two tried a double steal, but Hodge shut the fellow off at third
with an easy throw, and Walling came near making it a double by a snap
throw to second.
Then another man got a hit, which left a man on first and third, the
one on second only getting one base on the hit, as he stumbled and fell
when he ran.
“A hit means a score!” roared a voice from the midst of the Princeton
rooters.
“It may mean two scores,” cried another voice. “Murphy will steal
second on the first ball pitched.”
Hodge called Haggerty up, and they whispered together, while the
Princeton crowd guyed them.
Haggerty sent in a high ball on his next pitch, and Murphy, who was on
first, shot toward second.
Hodge made a motion to line the ball down to second, and, as Stubbs was
not playing in for a short throw and a return to the plate, the man on
third started toward home.
Hodge did not throw to second. With a snap he wheeled toward third, and
sent the ball whistling at Walling, who was hugging the bag.
The runner saw the trick, stopped short, and tried to get back to the
bag.
Over his shoulder sped the ball, and he saw he was caught between the
bases. He tried to dodge back and forth along the line, but Walling ran
him down and pinned him.
Two men were out.
Thus far Yale had kept Princeton from scoring on the second inning, but
it had not been by work in the box.
Now the men in yellow and black fell on Haggerty fiercely. They
hammered him to right, to left, and to center. With two men out, they
ran in three more scores in a hurry.
Before the third score was made, Frank Merriwell was out of his sweater
and warming up. When the third man crossed the plate, he walked into
the diamond, and Haggerty, sick at heart, came out of the box.
Frank was greeted with a cheer. The Yale men cheered him, and Princeton
men clapped their hands, for he was well known and admired for his
prowess.
His face was quite calm as he went into the box.
Pink Pooler sneered:
“Here is where Mr. Merriwell takes his medicine. Oh, Princeton has won
the game now! Yale can’t get six scores off a fellow like Finch.”
Nobody said a word. All seemed to feel that Pooler was right.
Merry remembered how Billy Mains had paralyzed the Baltimore batter by
sending in a double-shoot for the first ball, and he resolved to try it
on the Princeton man. Bart signaled for a drop, but Frank gave him a
signal that told his decision to use the double-shoot at the very start.
Having taken plenty of time, Merriwell sent in a “smoker.” The ball
made a sharp outcurve, and then curved inward so quickly that it passed
fairly over the outside corner of the plate, although it had looked
like a wild one.
“One strike!” cried the umpire.
The batter dropped his stick and stared at Merriwell, while cries of
astonishment came from the grand stand.
The face of Bart Hodge was calm and cold as ice, while his nerves
were steady as a clock, although they had been badly shaken till Frank
entered the box.
“Have I got ’em?” muttered the batter, as he rubbed his eyes and picked
up his bat.
“What’s the matter?” sharply asked the captain of the team. “Why did
you drop it?”
“You should have seen that ball!” returned the man at the plate. “It
had more curves than a corkscrew! I’ll bet he can’t do it again.”
Not a word did Frank say, but again he assumed a position that told
Hodge he would pitch a double-shoot.
This time he started it with an in, and it changed to an out, just as
the batter leaped back to get out of the way.
Over the outside corner of the plate passed the ball.
“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.
The batter was dazed.
“I’d give a hundred dollars to know what kind of twists he is getting
onto that thing!” he muttered. “Never saw anything like that before.”
After that he felt that he could not tell where the ball was coming.
The next one started with an outcurve, but the batter feared it might
twist in somehow, for all that such a thing seemed utterly impossible,
so he fanned the empty air trying to hit it, and was out.
Frank had pitched three balls and struck the man out.
“Now, fellows,” said Frank, as his men gathered around him near the
bench, “if you will keep cool and think you can hit Finch, you will
hit him all right before you quit. I am going to try to hold them down
hard. If we can make some scores in any possible way, we stand a fair
shot at this game yet.”
“That’s rot!” said Hal Faunce. “We do not stand a ghost of a show. I
can’t hit Finch, and I don’t believe the rest of you can.”
Without showing the least excitement, but speaking very coldly, Merry
said:
“Faunce, go into the dressing room and get out of that suit. Browning
will put it on if he can get into it.”
“What?” cried Faunce, harshly. “What do you mean?”
“I do not propose to put a man up against Finch who feels sure he can’t
hit the fellow. It’s a waste of time.”
“You are going to lay me off?” growled Faunce.
“Yes,” said Frank, and turned away.
Cursing under his breath, Faunce started toward the dressing room.
Frank motioned for Browning to follow, and Bruce obeyed.
It happened that Faunce was a big fellow, and the suits were loose, so
that there was a chance for Browning to get into the one worn by the
angry right fielder.
The game went on.
Bink Stubbs came to the bat and fanned out easily. Then Walling came up
and popped an easy fly into the air, so Finch gathered it in and got an
out to his credit.
Wintz was the next batter. He did not try to slaughter the ball, but
he got up against it fairly, and sent it out toward short. Beverage
should have picked it up, but he made a fumble, and Wintz succeeded in
reaching first ahead of the ball.
“Here is where we start,” said Frank.
But Parker, the next man, batted a liner straight at Murphy, who took
it easily.
Still not a hit had been obtained off Finch.
Frank went into the box, prepared to make a fight to keep Princeton
from rolling up a score. He could not use his great double-shoot often,
but he resolved to use it at critical times. He could control it in a
marvelous manner, so it was not dangerous to use.
The first man up managed to find the ball. It was not a hit, but he got
first on an error by Wintz.
Then Merry toyed with the next batter, while the anxious runner was
held close to first, without daring to try a steal. At last the batter
tried to bunt, but Frank apprehended the trick, and ran in the moment
he pitched the ball.
Down toward third rolled the ball. Merry got it ahead of Walling,
scooping it up with one hand, and turned, throwing it with the same
motion that picked it from the ground.
Down to second sped the ball. It got there ahead of the runner, and
Wintz snapped it to first quick as a flash.
It was a double play; both men were out.
Then the Yale rooters took heart and cheered. Once more not a few of
the Princeton men were generous enough to give a hand.
Frank was not trying to make a brilliant record on strike-outs, but he
was holding his opponents down on hits.
The next man up struck out, however, and then Yale once again came to
the bat.
For the next three innings the score remained just the same; Princeton
had made six, while Yale had not been able to score, although
Merriwell, Hodge, Browning, Jeffers and Wintz obtained good hits.
Finch, however, was keeping the hits scattered, and the cloud of gloom
had settled thickly over the few Yale rooters huddled on the bleachers.
Merriwell was toying with Princeton’s best batters. Whenever it looked
as if a good man had Merriwell in a hole, he would “put on steam,” send
in one or two more of those baffling double-shoots, and strike the man
out.
The rooters growled. Why hadn’t Frank gone in at the start? Then it
might have been different. Now the game was lost beyond recovery.
“That shows what a fine manager he is,” sneered Pooler.
In the sixth inning Yale seemed in just as bad luck as ever. The first
two men up went out, and then Hodge came to the bat. There was fire
in Bart’s eye. He waited for a good one, and then smashed it out for
one of the longest drives of the day, landing on third before the
outfielders could get the sphere back into the diamond.
Merriwell was the next batter. He was very particular in the selection
of a wagon-tongue bat, and, when he came up, he resolved to bring Bart
in if possible.
Finch was shooting them over like bullets. He tried to strike Frank
out, and that was where he made his mistake. Merry picked out a good
one, found it, met it, and sent it humming.
In came Hodge, while Frank made two bags with ease.
The Yale rooters brightened up.
“What’s this? What’s this?” cried Charlie Creighton. “They have dropped
on Finch at last! Now they will hit anything he sends over the plate.”
The Yale yell was heard, and the little bunch of rooters did their best
to encourage the players.
Finch was astonished by Merriwell’s success. Suddenly he lost some of
the supreme confidence that had buoyed him up all the while. Yale had
scored at a time when a whitewash seemed sure. What was going to happen
next?
Cal Jeffers came to the plate. He had been placed at the head of Yale’s
batting list because of his qualities as a hard, sure hitter.
Hodge and Merriwell had secured hits, and Jeffers looked as if he meant
to do the same.
Finch fiddled with the ball, while two Yale coachers shouted from
opposite sides of the diamond. He pitched twice and had two called
balls on him. Jeffers stood calmly waiting for a good one.
Finch decided to put on his greatest speed and cut the outside corner
of the plate. He did, and Cal Jeffers swung his bat.
It did not seem that Jeffers put any force into that hit, but the ball
went skimming down between short and second so fast that no one could
touch it, and it placed Jeffers on second, while Merriwell scored with
ease.
Two for Yale!
The rooters broke loose in earnest. This was better than they had
expected.
And big Bruce Browning was at the bat!
Now Bruce seemed very much awake. He had barely been able to pull on
Faunce’s suit, and it looked as if he might split open the shirt or the
trousers at any moment.
Finch was nervous; he showed it. His confidence had dropped in an
astonishing manner.
“It’s too bad,” said Pink Pooler, who showed some symptoms of
uneasiness. “Why didn’t the fellows do this before? Now it is too late.”
“It’s never too late to mend,” said Dismal Jones, solemnly. “There is a
chance for you.”
Finch resolved to worry Browning, but he made a mistake with the first
ball he pitched. Without intending to do so, he sent that ball over
close to the ground.
Browning hit it, and rapped out a daisy-cutter that enabled him to get
first, while Jeffers, by the most brilliant running, crossed third and
came home on a slide, getting in the score.
“There’s half of it!” screamed Jack Diamond, from the bleachers.
His voice was drowned by the Yale cheers.
Right there Finch went entirely to pieces. He became so wild that the
next two men got a base on balls, and the bags were all taken. Then
Walling rapped one to Princeton’s third baseman. It should have been
an easy out, but the man was so anxious to pick it up cleanly that he
juggled it, tossed it into the air, caught it, threw it to first, and
put it away over the head of the baseman.
Browning had scored, Costigan followed him, and Bink Stubbs made a
slide for third.
The right fielder was the man who got the ball. He shot it to first,
and first sent it across to third. It was another wild throw. The whole
Princeton nine seemed “up in the air.”
Stubbs scrambled up, hearing the coacher yelling for him to make for
home. He did so. His short legs fairly twinkled as he tore down the
line, and he crossed the plate ahead of the ball.
Then the Yale rooters yelled, and shrieked, and cheered till it seemed
they were crazy, for the score was tied!