PERSISTENT CHESTER.
Spr-rr-rr-rr—crash!
“Hooray! A strike!”
“That does it!”
It was a rainy afternoon, and the members of the team were putting in
the usual hour for the baseball practice in the gymnasium.
Darrell, Jolliby, Tubbs, and Merriwell were just finishing a bowling
match on the new alleys, Dick and Obediah being matched against Hal and
Chip.
Up to the last frame it had seemed as if Darrell and Jolliby were the
winners. It looked like a forlorn hope when Merriwell took his place to
bowl for the last time, as he needed eighteen pins to tie and nineteen
to win. Nothing but a spare or a strike could save him. With a spare,
his chance of getting nine pins on the last bowl would be very slim.
This being the situation, there was great excitement when Dick sent his
first ball curving into the pins, striking number one quarteringly, and
raking down the whole bunch.
“Dern my picter!” palpitated Obediah Tubbs, his eyes bulging.
“Wouldn’t that sus-sus-sus-sus-scald you!” chattered Jolliby.
“How sorry I am!” shouted Ted Smart, who was setting up the pins.
“Talk about luck!” sneered Arlington, who was one of the spectators.
“What do you think of that? That was a case of horseshoes, all right!”
“Luck! Waugh!” snorted Buckhart. “Didn’t he hit ’em right?”
“I have seen them hit a hundred times in that way without making a
strike,” retorted Chet. “But he has to get nine pins with his next ball
in order to tie. He can’t do it.”
Up to this point Dick had been bowling for sport and for the fine
exercise it provided. It must not be understood that he was not trying
to do his best, for he always did at anything. But now Arlington’s words
aroused him, and he was seized with a sudden powerful desire to win.
“Bet you a horse he gets them!” exclaimed the Texan.
“If he does,” declared Chet, “it will be more of his slobby luck. When
it comes to bowling he is a mark. I can bowl a little myself. I’d like
to get at him once at this. But he doesn’t dare to give me a show on
these new alleys.”
“Hi suppose you’re a wonderful bowler?” put in Billy Bradley. “I suppose
you ’ave an hastonishing record?”
“I have bowled one hundred and thirty-eight in a single string of
candlepins,” asserted Chet.
“And then you woke up!” observed Buckhart. “You’re pretty clever—let you
tell it.”
Chester was not a whit abashed. He continued to boastingly assert that
he knew he was able at any time. barring accident, to defeat Merriwell
or any other boy in the school at candlepins.
“Dern his picter!” muttered Obediah Tubbs, nudging Dick, who was
apparently unconscious of Arlington’s presence. “Don’t you hear what he
is saying? By Jim, he needs a good lesson!”
Merriwell, however, felt it was an impossibility to teach Arlington a
lesson he would remember, for even his experience on the yacht had had
no lasting effect.
“Ken you git nine pins?” anxiously whispered the fat boy.
“I can try,” was Dick’s quiet answer, as he lifted the polished
candlepin ball and stood with his eyes fixed on the pins.
“Watch him!” muttered Arlington, seeking to divert the bowler’s
attention. “He knows we’re all looking at him. See him get two pins with
that ball.”
It’s a sure thing that mind as well as body plays a prominent part in
scientific bowling. Not only does it require brains to secure the best
result, but the bowler must fix his mind on the object he desires to
accomplish most, seeing in advance what success he would attain, and
must, in rolling a curving ball, behold in advance the sweeping movement
he wills the ball to take. It is sometimes the case that a player may
secure a good string by rolling carelessly, without any particular
mental effort. This is always a matter of chance. But the heady bowler
who uses his brains, and seems to control the ball with his mind, is one
who persistently and repeatedly accomplishes surprising results.
Arlington knew something of this, and he understood that it was often a
fatal mistake for a player to let his mind be diverted in the least, at
the moment when he starts to deliver the ball. This being the case, it
was Chester’s object to “rattle” Dick if possible. He failed utterly.
Advancing three steps to the line, Dick sent the ball down the polished
alley, striking the pins with a clattering crash, leaving but one
standing on the corner.
Dick had won the string with a ball to spare.
The boys gave a shout of satisfaction, while Arlington bit his lip in
disgust.
“Dern my picter!” cried Obediah Tubbs. “I kinder thought that I was
going to beat you by my rotten bowling, Dick; but you pulled us out of
the hole.”
“That was clever,” laughed Chet, as he stepped onto the runway of the
alley; “but still I believe it was nothing more than luck. As I have
just said, I can bowl a little myself, and I don’t depend on luck. I
challenge you to go me a string, Merriwell.”
Dick was becoming wearied by these repeated challenges on the part of
Arlington. Defeat after defeat made no difference with Chester. He
persisted with bulldog determination in his efforts to beat Merriwell at
something.
Hal Darrell was annoyed by the insolent manner in which Chester forced
himself among them. His eyes blazed as he said in a low tone:
“This party is made up. We’re bowling among ourselves now! When we have
finished, get your friends and take the alley! Don’t butt in!”
“I am not speaking to you, sir!” retorted Chet haughtily. “I have issued
the challenge to Mr. Merriwell. Perhaps he doesn’t dare accept. If
that’s the case, of course I will retire.”
“Gug-gug-gug-gug-go chase yourself!” said Jolliby. “You know he isn’t
afuf-fuf-fuf-fuf-fraid of you!”
“Actions speak louder than words,” said Chet. “I am here on the spot,
and I have issued my challenge. I am feeling just like bowling him now,
and it will show he hasn’t the nerve if he tries to put it off.”
“Dern his picter!” whispered Obediah Tubbs. “You will have to trim him,
Dick. There ain’t no way out of it.”
Suddenly Dick’s mind was made up.
“One string settles it, does it, Arlington?” he asked.
“That will be all you will care for,” laughed Chet. “You will get all
the satisfaction you want in one string.”
“Get off your coat,” said Dick. “I will bowl you one string.”
Among the spectators who gathered around were a few sympathizers with
Chester. These chaps were in every instance dissatisfied fellows, who
themselves had failed to be particularly successful at anything, through
lack of determination or industry, and who were envious of others who
succeeded.
Chet joyously removed his coat and hung it on a hook. He also took off
his collar and tie and rolled up his sleeve, displaying his forearms.
A coin was flipped to decide who should lead off, and the lead fell on
Arlington.
“Get them right on the spot, every one of them, boy!” he called to
Smart.
“I will do it,” retorted Ted. “It will be such a beautiful sight to see
them standing there after you roll! They will be all up for Merriwell
when you get through!”
Arlington examined the balls, and picked out and placed aside two that
were slightly marred. Then, having weighed several of them in his hands,
he selected one and slightly dampened his fingers with the sponge.
As Chet started to roll Buckhart started to say something, but Dick
silenced him with a gesture and a look.
With his eyes on the pins, Arlington balanced himself on the balls of
his feet, ran lightly forward three steps, and sent the ball spinning
whirringly down the polished surface of the alley. It struck the head
pin squarely and cut a hole through the bunch, leaving five standing,
three on one side and two on the other.
“Hard luck!” exclaimed one of the fellows who sympathized with him.
“Oh, that’s all right!” retorted Chet with supreme confidence. “I will
clean them off.”
He then assumed a new position on the alley and rolled for three pins on
one side. It seemed that he would hit them perfectly, but the ball
missed the pin in advance by the narrowest margin and clipped off the
other two.
“Now that was hard luck!” he exclaimed. “Never mind; I will take the two
on the other corner and start with nine.”
“That’s the talk!” cried a spectator.
Chester rolled with care and hit the nearest pin, which set its mate
swaying, and the latter finally fell.
“Nine pins!” announced Gardner, who was scoring.
“I don’t believe Smart had them on the spots,” declared Chet, standing
with his hands on hips and glaring at the two pins left upright. “That
ball should have taken them, sure.”
“What a shame!” cried Smart. “I am so disappointed!”
“That will do for you!” flared Chet. “While you’re setting up pins,
you’re supposed to be dead!”
Arlington sat down with an air of dissatisfaction.
It was now Dick’s turn, and he was ready by the time Ted had the pins
up.
Dick’s ball seemed to strike them handsomely, and he swept down eight
pins, leaving, however, one standing on each corner.
“Now that was hard lul-lul-lul-luck!” came from Jolliby.
Merriwell said nothing. Picking up another ball, he took his position on
the left side of the runway and prepared to try for one of the pins. As
he started to bowl some of his friends uttered low exclamations of
dismay, for it seemed that the wooden sphere would leave the alley four
or five feet before it reached the pin. Nevertheless, this did not
happen, for the ball took a pretty curve and clung to the edge of the
alley until it struck the pin fairly and sent it spinning against the
buffer.
“Ha!” was the cry. “He did it!”
“Well, there is one remaining on the other corner,” laughed Chet. “Let’s
see him pick that off.”
“He will do it, you bet your boots!” declared Buckhart.
Dick now got into position at the right hand of the runway and rolled
what is called a “cross-alley” ball. That is, he rolled the ball so that
it started on the right side of the alley, crossing diagonally to the
left on a perfect line for the pin at the corner. In this manner this
pin was picked off, and Gardner called:
“Ten pins for Merriwell!”
“Beautiful work!” exclaimed one of the boys, while several clapped their
hands softly.
“Evidently you’re going to stretch yourself, Merriwell,” laughed
Arlington, maintaining that insolent atmosphere. “You will have to
stretch yourself, all right, my fine fellow. I haven’t started to bowl
yet.”
“You’d better start right away,” said Buckhart, whereupon Dick promptly
stepped over to Brad, to whom he spoke in a low tone.
“Don’t make any talk, old man,” he said. “I have more friends here than
he has, and I want him to have just as good a show as I do. If he beats
me let him do it fairly; if I beat him I will do so without taking any
advantage.”
“Well, you’re a whole lot scrupulous!” growled the Texan. “That galoot
certain has missed no opportunity to take advantage of you.”
“Do you wish me to put myself on the same level?”
“You can’t get down to his level in a year if you try!”
The pins were up and Arlington was ready. He thrust up his right sleeve
a little farther, so that the lower portion of his swelling biceps could
be seen.
Chester did not use a curve, but rolled a ball with a moderate amount of
speed, starting his first one in each set from the right side of the
alley and sending it toward the head pin. This time he barely missed the
pin in advance, and the ball lopped off the entire side of the bunch,
leaving four standing on the opposite side.
“That would have been a strike if he had touched the head pin,” declared
one of the spectators.
“It is a spare now,” averred Arlington, with unshaken confidence. “I
can’t miss them.”
At this statement some one laughed.
“Oh, laugh away!” exclaimed Chet. “But just watch this ball a moment!”
Chester rolled his second ball. This time he used a trifle too much
speed. The ball seemed to hit the head pin squarely, and the pin took
one of those peculiar, freakish jumps that carried it clean over the
others without touching them.
Arlington stood still in the middle of the runway with his hands on his
hips, glaring at the pins.
“I’d like to have some one tell how that happened,” he finally cried.
“Hard luck!” said a voice. “You should have had your spare!”
“I know it!” growled Chet, picking up another ball.
He then did a foolish thing, for, having missed the spare, he rolled the
final ball carelessly, the result being that it simply clipped off the
corner pin.
In a close candlepin bowling match every point counts, and the winner
often is the man who can best pick off single pins.
“Eight pins for Arlington!” said Gardner, as he recorded it on the score
board, making a total of seventeen.
Dick had hard luck with his first ball, cutting two pins out of one side
of the bunch.
“That’s a shame,” said Chester, laughing.
Although Dick took the greatest pains, his next ball cut out two pins on
the opposite side, and left in the worst possible position the ones
standing.
At this Chester laughed heartily.
“A wooster!” he shouted. “You’ll get five pins on this roll, if you’re
lucky.”
Brad Buckhart was both angry and disgusted.
“Well, that was beastly luck!” he muttered.
“Pick off two of the corner ones, Merriwell, old man,” advised Barron
Black, who was an interested spectator.
Dick paused a moment in consideration. He had once been able to get
eight pins out of a similar break by hitting the head pin, although he
knew the chances were ten to one that he could not score more than two,
while the odds were decidedly against obtaining more than one in hitting
them in that manner.
Nevertheless he decided to take chances and roll for all he could get.
With this in his mind, he sent the third ball straight for the head pin.
He gave it a twisting whirl as it left his hand, using great speed.
The head pin was struck and sent flying against the others. To the
astonishment of Arlington and the surprise of every one, those pins flew
in such a peculiar manner that all save one went down.
“Well, what do you think of that?” exclaimed Chet.
“I think it was great luck,” smiled Dick quietly, as he turned to sit
down on the bench.
“Luck!” said Buckhart. “It was science. You hear me chirp!”
“Science!” sneered Arlington. “Why, it wouldn’t happen in a hundred
times! Science, indeed!”
Gardner recorded the score on the board, the total giving Dick nineteen
points and putting him two in the lead.
“I think I will have to let myself out if I am going to beat his luck
with my science,” said Chet.
When the pins were up, he sent the first ball into them in such a manner
that they all fell, save two. Those two were widely separated, but at
one side of the alley a deadwood fell, lay spinning a moment, and then
began to roll toward the other side.
“Look at that deadwood!” burst from Arlington. “Why, the confounded
alley isn’t level! The left-hand corner is lower than the other, or that
pin wouldn’t roll across in such a manner.”
“The left-hand corner is lower,” immediately agreed one of the
spectators. “We discovered that several days ago.”
“Well, that puts a big element of chance into the game,” declared Chet.
“When the pins roll like that there is no telling what may happen.”
The rolling pin, however, stopped against one of the two left standing,
and Chester studied its position.
“That isn’t so bad,” he finally declared. “If I can hit that deadwood
fairly I know I can get the pin it rests against, and the deadwood ought
to drop the other pin. Watch me do it.”
Having called their attention in this manner, he chose his ball and with
careless ease and assurance sent it straight at the end of the deadwood.
The ball did not swerve a fraction of an inch during its course down the
alley. It struck the deadwood perfectly, and in a twinkling both pins
were down.
Arlington had made his first spare.
Exclamations of satisfaction and applause burst from a number of the
witnesses, while Dick Merriwell generously clapped his hands and said:
“That was a beautiful shot, Arlington.”
“Oh, I knew I could do it!” smiled Chester in a most conceited and lofty
manner. “I can always do a thing like that when I have to. You can’t
beat me at this little game, Merriwell.”
Ted Smart heard these words, even though he was standing up the pins at
the far end of the alley.
“If there’s anything I admire it’s a chap that never boasts!” cried Ted.
“There’s the modest fellow for you!”
“Until you finish setting up those pins you’d better be seen and not
heard!” warmly retorted Arlington.
Dick followed with a handsome break, leaving only two pins standing.
“There is a spare for him,” declared Black.
“If he gets it,” said Chet instantly.
A deadwood had fallen in such a manner that it seemed certain Dick could
not miss sweeping down the pins with it. While he was picking up his
next ball, however, this deadwood began to roll toward the lower side of
the alley, and by the time he was ready it was too far from the standing
pins to be any use against them.
“Fine old alley!” laughed Arlington. “That’s how, by being out of level,
it robs him of almost a sure spare.”
Dick used a curve, and again it seemed that his ball would leave the
alley on the right side. Once more it curved in time to cling to the
edge, but it failed to touch the pin in advance and simply removed the
one on the extreme corner.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Chet. “That’s the time he didn’t do it! The cant
on the alley surely did me a good turn then. He would have made it had
the deadwood remained where it fell.”
Merriwell made no complaint, but chose his third ball, and with it sent
the last standing pin against the buffer, which gave him another score
of ten, with a total of twenty-nine.
“Twenty-nine,” said Chester, as he rose and looked at the score board.
“I must get two pins with my first ball in order to tie him. Well, here
goes for eight pins.”
Crash! He sent the ball into the pins. Six fell.
“Only six!” he exclaimed, as if disappointed.
“That puts you four in the lead in the third box,” said one of the
spectators.
“That ball should have been good for eight or nine,” asserted Chester.
“Dern my picter!” exclaimed Tubbs. “He beats the earth!”
“Sus-sus-sus-sixteen looks pretty good for him in that box,” stuttered
Jolliby.
“Sixteen is better than the average spare,” confessed Mel Fraser, who
had heard the match was taking place and hurried to the gymnasium to
witness it.
“No bigger than the ordinary spare that I make,” declared Chet, wagging
his head.
“Well, there is another spare for you, if you hit them right,” said
Fraser.
“Oh, I will get it, all right,” promised Arlington, posing with his
second ball ready. “Just watch this!”
Once more, however, his confidence was too great, and to his unspeakable
disgust he missed the pins entirely.
Instantly he caught up the third ball and sent it with a snapping
movement flying down the alley. This ball took off only one pin, which
gave Chester seven in his fourth box and a total of forty.
“If the alley had been level, I must have made another spare with my
second ball!” he growled as he sat down.
This was not true, for the ball had swerved, at most, less than half an
inch in its course.
Dick slowly moistened his fingers with the sponge.
“Now let’s see him get another ten!” cried Arlington. “He can’t make all
nines and tens.”
Dick’s curve was a fraction too wide, for the ball missed the head pin
and gave him a poor break.
“I told you!” laughed Chet. “He couldn’t keep up that string of tens.”
Buckhart started to say something, but remembered Dick’s warning and
stopped.
For all of the bad break, Merriwell sent his next ball into the pins in
such a manner that they fell handsomely and only one was left standing.
“Well, he has nine!” nodded Chester. “I think he will leave that one
standing.”
“You’ve got another th-th-th-th-think coming!” burst from Jolliby, as
Dick picked off the tenth pin.
“Ten!” called Gardner, making the record on the board. “Thirty-nine for
Merriwell in the fourth box!”
Arlington rose and stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the
score board. He whistled softly.
“Thirty-nine,” he said. “Why, he’s only one behind!”
“And he hasn’t made a spare yet,” observed Barron Black.
“I see I must get down to business,” said Chester. “I have fooled with
him just as long as I can.”
Having made this remark, he chose a ball and rolled.
Crash!
Every pin fell!
“A strike!” shouted Fraser.
“Well, wouldn’t that ju-ju-ju-jar you!” chattered Jolliby.
“I rather think it will jar Mr. Merriwell a little,” said Chet, as he
gracefully sat down, his face wreathed in smiles.
Dick did not look disturbed. There was in his eyes that strange, grim
determination so often seen there on the diamond and the gridiron.
“There’s a strike!” cried one of the watchers, as Merriwell’s first ball
smashed into the pins, sending them flying.
It was not. On the corner one pin remained tottering and swaying a
little until it settled and stood still.
Not a word of complaint came from Dick. Instead, he rolled his next ball
with great precision, and removed the standing pin, thus getting a
spare.
“That’s all right,” exclaimed Black. “It wouldn’t surprise me to see him
get as many pins on his spare as Arlington does on his strike.”