CHAPTER XV.GRAFTER GROWS UNEASY.The game that was to be between Frank Merriwell’s team and the great Outcasts was thoroughly advertised. Much was said about it in the sporting columns of the New York papers. The sporting writers were one and all inclined to doubt the ability of the Merries to check the triumphant career of the Outcasts.One well-known sporting writer demonstrated in his paper, to his own satisfaction, at least, that it was utterly impossible for Merriwell’s team to defeat the fast nine formed from the very best of the “timber” left over from the big leagues.It must not be fancied that Frank himself felt certain of winning. He knew the sort of a “proposition” he and his comrades were going up against. It aroused all his sporting blood and determination. It likewise aroused the others. Hodge was the only man on the team who seemed confident of victory, but all were resolved to play for their very lives.At least, it would be no disgrace if they met defeat. They practiced faithfully, and each day Merry worked at his new curve.“Bart,” he said, “I hope I can fool those chaps with that ball. I hear they are wonderful batters. I have been told that they have found a man who throws something like the double-shoot, and they have been practicing batting with him as pitcher. They expectto fall on me when I hand them up the double-shoot and hammer me to the four winds.”“You’ll fool them, Merry,” nodded Hodge positively. “If they get a single hit off that curve I shall be surprised.”“You’ve seen what the papers are saying about our prospects. We’re called fast enough to make it interesting for college teams, but several degrees too weak to hold down the Outcasts. Henshaw, of theUniverse, says the chances are more than even that we’ll not score if O’Neill is used against us. Anderson, of theStandard, says it would be a shame to use O’Neill and give us no chance; he urges Manager McGann to put in Brackett. Pulsifer, of theEvening Dispatch, thinks we are going to lose the reputation we have made on our trip this season.”“And they all make me tired!” cried Bart. “We’ll give them a chance to sing another song in their Sunday columns.”The boys took care of themselves, lived properly and sought to come up to the game in the pink of condition.Frank kept his eyes open for Hobart Manton, but once more Manton seemed to have disappeared completely.From Wallace Grafter he learned that charges had been preferred at the Eagle Heights A.A. against Frost and Necker, as having attempted to assault an honorary member of the club. Merriwell had been taken into the Eagle Heights A.A. after his success at the meet in defeating two of its champions.Saturday proved to be a fine day. The boys werein a glow of enthusiasm. When they thought of the coming struggle in Hoboken they tingled all over.The game was to be called at 3 o’clock. At 2.30 Frank and his team reached the grounds and found a river of people crowding in at the gate. Evidently the game would be witnessed by an immense crowd.They hurried to the dressing rooms and quickly got into their suits.When they came out onto the field they found the Outcasts practicing.The appearance of Merriwell’s team produced a stir and caused many of the spectators to applaud loudly.Melvin McGann hastened to shake hands with Frank. He was beaming in a most satisfied manner.“Look at this mob!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have hard work keeping them off the field. We’ve stretched ropes, but ropes won’t hold a crowd back if it gets too large. Here is Captain Hurley. Mr. Hurley—Mr. Merriwell.”Hugh Hurley shook hands with Frank.“Glad to meet you Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “You may have the field for practice.”Frank sent his players out at once.Bob Gowan and Mike Grafter were sitting together. Wallace Grafter joined them as the Merries trotted onto the field.The Tammany man surveyed the youngsters in blue in a doubtful manner.“Is this the team you told me to bet on, son?” he asked.“Sure, dad,” nodded Wallace.“Rather immature, some of ’em. Look like boys.”“They are all men in years, although they do look rather boyish,” said Wallace.“Hum!” grunted Mr. Grafter doubtfully.Gowan grinned.“I’ve got ye!” he wheezed. “Your money is mine! The kids won’t be in the game for a minute.”The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of the offenders. He made a high throw to second.“Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank.Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low.Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to make the throw good.It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done.Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect after that, and it was.To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of that, he was impressing Bart by force of example.As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy.“I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better have done it. I’ll never see it again.”Again Gowan grinned.“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold feet.”“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on Frank Merriwell, and you thinkthe whole of his bunch just as good as he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will show him up.”“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than off Merriwell.”“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”The bet was made.There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy chap in a baseball suit.At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered exclamations of surprise.“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as life! I must be dreaming!”The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed in smiles.“Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgidfor utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.”“Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why, cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.”“Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.”“You are playing with the Outcasts?”“Am I? Ask me! I am their mainstay and support. My fielding is about nine hundred and ninety-nine per cent. and my batting a trifle better than five hundred per cent. I was too fast for the Concord team of the New England League, and so they had to let me go. You see the other players didn’t have any chance to shine with me in the game. I played all round them. Not only did I fill my own field at shortstop, but I often gamboled out into the extreme gardens and picked flies and line drives right out of the fingers of the fielders. I covered all the sacks from the initial corner round to the home plate, and often I backed up the catcher. The populace stood aghast at my strenuosity, and the players became jealous and pea-green with envy.“These envious individuals formed a combine against me. They put their caputs together—caput is French for head—they put their caputs together and formed a combine. They decided to quit in a body unless I was released. The manager had no alternative. He pleaded with them with tears in his eyes andhis fists doubled up, but they would not hearken unto reason, and so he was compelled to release me with honors. I immediately received offers from Boston, New York, Washington, Chicago, and Oshkosh. But I decided to throw my fortunes in with the noble Outcasts, and here I am.“I’m sorry for you, Merry, old boy, but you haven’t a show with me in the game against you. Your double-shoot will not save you on this salubrious afternoon. You will remember that I acquired a spasm of the double-shoot myself, and I have had the boys batting against it for the past four days. Every man on the team can hit the double-shoot with his eyes shut. Just hand it up to them and regret it to the end of your tempestuous career.”“So you are the chap who has been training them to bat against me? I heard some one was doing it.”“I confess with all due humility and abnegation—abnegation is a good word, but I don’t know what it means—I confess that I am the guilty party. I had to do it. You see we haven’t been beaten thus far in our seething career, and we don’t propose to have our immaculate record sullied by defeat. The boys knew I could hand out the double-shoot. When they learned that the game with your team had been arranged, they led me forth like a lambkin to the slaughter and bade me promulgate the sphere through the atmosphere after the manner in which you are wont to do. Then they took their little bats and learned to hit it. I warn you in advance that they can connect with the ball even though you make it travel like a writhing snake through the ozone. It will grieve my tender heart tosee you batted all over the lawn, Merry; but I fear exceedingly that such will be your fate.”“What do you think of that?” exclaimed Hodge, who had never entertained any great liking for Wiley. “He has been teaching them to bat your pet curve, Frank.”“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.”“The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.”The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him.As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position of shortstop.“Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.”Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed the slab.Ready was in position to bat.O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck.“Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to have a passing glimpse of it.”The umpire pronounced it a strike.“That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see the ball.”Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped his bat and waited for the next one.It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the plate.“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.Wiley did a hornpipe.“It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.”“He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his tongue.”O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high, but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders.Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out.The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them.
CHAPTER XV.GRAFTER GROWS UNEASY.The game that was to be between Frank Merriwell’s team and the great Outcasts was thoroughly advertised. Much was said about it in the sporting columns of the New York papers. The sporting writers were one and all inclined to doubt the ability of the Merries to check the triumphant career of the Outcasts.One well-known sporting writer demonstrated in his paper, to his own satisfaction, at least, that it was utterly impossible for Merriwell’s team to defeat the fast nine formed from the very best of the “timber” left over from the big leagues.It must not be fancied that Frank himself felt certain of winning. He knew the sort of a “proposition” he and his comrades were going up against. It aroused all his sporting blood and determination. It likewise aroused the others. Hodge was the only man on the team who seemed confident of victory, but all were resolved to play for their very lives.At least, it would be no disgrace if they met defeat. They practiced faithfully, and each day Merry worked at his new curve.“Bart,” he said, “I hope I can fool those chaps with that ball. I hear they are wonderful batters. I have been told that they have found a man who throws something like the double-shoot, and they have been practicing batting with him as pitcher. They expectto fall on me when I hand them up the double-shoot and hammer me to the four winds.”“You’ll fool them, Merry,” nodded Hodge positively. “If they get a single hit off that curve I shall be surprised.”“You’ve seen what the papers are saying about our prospects. We’re called fast enough to make it interesting for college teams, but several degrees too weak to hold down the Outcasts. Henshaw, of theUniverse, says the chances are more than even that we’ll not score if O’Neill is used against us. Anderson, of theStandard, says it would be a shame to use O’Neill and give us no chance; he urges Manager McGann to put in Brackett. Pulsifer, of theEvening Dispatch, thinks we are going to lose the reputation we have made on our trip this season.”“And they all make me tired!” cried Bart. “We’ll give them a chance to sing another song in their Sunday columns.”The boys took care of themselves, lived properly and sought to come up to the game in the pink of condition.Frank kept his eyes open for Hobart Manton, but once more Manton seemed to have disappeared completely.From Wallace Grafter he learned that charges had been preferred at the Eagle Heights A.A. against Frost and Necker, as having attempted to assault an honorary member of the club. Merriwell had been taken into the Eagle Heights A.A. after his success at the meet in defeating two of its champions.Saturday proved to be a fine day. The boys werein a glow of enthusiasm. When they thought of the coming struggle in Hoboken they tingled all over.The game was to be called at 3 o’clock. At 2.30 Frank and his team reached the grounds and found a river of people crowding in at the gate. Evidently the game would be witnessed by an immense crowd.They hurried to the dressing rooms and quickly got into their suits.When they came out onto the field they found the Outcasts practicing.The appearance of Merriwell’s team produced a stir and caused many of the spectators to applaud loudly.Melvin McGann hastened to shake hands with Frank. He was beaming in a most satisfied manner.“Look at this mob!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have hard work keeping them off the field. We’ve stretched ropes, but ropes won’t hold a crowd back if it gets too large. Here is Captain Hurley. Mr. Hurley—Mr. Merriwell.”Hugh Hurley shook hands with Frank.“Glad to meet you Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “You may have the field for practice.”Frank sent his players out at once.Bob Gowan and Mike Grafter were sitting together. Wallace Grafter joined them as the Merries trotted onto the field.The Tammany man surveyed the youngsters in blue in a doubtful manner.“Is this the team you told me to bet on, son?” he asked.“Sure, dad,” nodded Wallace.“Rather immature, some of ’em. Look like boys.”“They are all men in years, although they do look rather boyish,” said Wallace.“Hum!” grunted Mr. Grafter doubtfully.Gowan grinned.“I’ve got ye!” he wheezed. “Your money is mine! The kids won’t be in the game for a minute.”The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of the offenders. He made a high throw to second.“Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank.Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low.Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to make the throw good.It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done.Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect after that, and it was.To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of that, he was impressing Bart by force of example.As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy.“I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better have done it. I’ll never see it again.”Again Gowan grinned.“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold feet.”“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on Frank Merriwell, and you thinkthe whole of his bunch just as good as he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will show him up.”“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than off Merriwell.”“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”The bet was made.There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy chap in a baseball suit.At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered exclamations of surprise.“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as life! I must be dreaming!”The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed in smiles.“Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgidfor utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.”“Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why, cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.”“Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.”“You are playing with the Outcasts?”“Am I? Ask me! I am their mainstay and support. My fielding is about nine hundred and ninety-nine per cent. and my batting a trifle better than five hundred per cent. I was too fast for the Concord team of the New England League, and so they had to let me go. You see the other players didn’t have any chance to shine with me in the game. I played all round them. Not only did I fill my own field at shortstop, but I often gamboled out into the extreme gardens and picked flies and line drives right out of the fingers of the fielders. I covered all the sacks from the initial corner round to the home plate, and often I backed up the catcher. The populace stood aghast at my strenuosity, and the players became jealous and pea-green with envy.“These envious individuals formed a combine against me. They put their caputs together—caput is French for head—they put their caputs together and formed a combine. They decided to quit in a body unless I was released. The manager had no alternative. He pleaded with them with tears in his eyes andhis fists doubled up, but they would not hearken unto reason, and so he was compelled to release me with honors. I immediately received offers from Boston, New York, Washington, Chicago, and Oshkosh. But I decided to throw my fortunes in with the noble Outcasts, and here I am.“I’m sorry for you, Merry, old boy, but you haven’t a show with me in the game against you. Your double-shoot will not save you on this salubrious afternoon. You will remember that I acquired a spasm of the double-shoot myself, and I have had the boys batting against it for the past four days. Every man on the team can hit the double-shoot with his eyes shut. Just hand it up to them and regret it to the end of your tempestuous career.”“So you are the chap who has been training them to bat against me? I heard some one was doing it.”“I confess with all due humility and abnegation—abnegation is a good word, but I don’t know what it means—I confess that I am the guilty party. I had to do it. You see we haven’t been beaten thus far in our seething career, and we don’t propose to have our immaculate record sullied by defeat. The boys knew I could hand out the double-shoot. When they learned that the game with your team had been arranged, they led me forth like a lambkin to the slaughter and bade me promulgate the sphere through the atmosphere after the manner in which you are wont to do. Then they took their little bats and learned to hit it. I warn you in advance that they can connect with the ball even though you make it travel like a writhing snake through the ozone. It will grieve my tender heart tosee you batted all over the lawn, Merry; but I fear exceedingly that such will be your fate.”“What do you think of that?” exclaimed Hodge, who had never entertained any great liking for Wiley. “He has been teaching them to bat your pet curve, Frank.”“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.”“The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.”The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him.As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position of shortstop.“Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.”Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed the slab.Ready was in position to bat.O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck.“Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to have a passing glimpse of it.”The umpire pronounced it a strike.“That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see the ball.”Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped his bat and waited for the next one.It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the plate.“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.Wiley did a hornpipe.“It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.”“He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his tongue.”O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high, but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders.Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out.The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them.
The game that was to be between Frank Merriwell’s team and the great Outcasts was thoroughly advertised. Much was said about it in the sporting columns of the New York papers. The sporting writers were one and all inclined to doubt the ability of the Merries to check the triumphant career of the Outcasts.
One well-known sporting writer demonstrated in his paper, to his own satisfaction, at least, that it was utterly impossible for Merriwell’s team to defeat the fast nine formed from the very best of the “timber” left over from the big leagues.
It must not be fancied that Frank himself felt certain of winning. He knew the sort of a “proposition” he and his comrades were going up against. It aroused all his sporting blood and determination. It likewise aroused the others. Hodge was the only man on the team who seemed confident of victory, but all were resolved to play for their very lives.
At least, it would be no disgrace if they met defeat. They practiced faithfully, and each day Merry worked at his new curve.
“Bart,” he said, “I hope I can fool those chaps with that ball. I hear they are wonderful batters. I have been told that they have found a man who throws something like the double-shoot, and they have been practicing batting with him as pitcher. They expectto fall on me when I hand them up the double-shoot and hammer me to the four winds.”
“You’ll fool them, Merry,” nodded Hodge positively. “If they get a single hit off that curve I shall be surprised.”
“You’ve seen what the papers are saying about our prospects. We’re called fast enough to make it interesting for college teams, but several degrees too weak to hold down the Outcasts. Henshaw, of theUniverse, says the chances are more than even that we’ll not score if O’Neill is used against us. Anderson, of theStandard, says it would be a shame to use O’Neill and give us no chance; he urges Manager McGann to put in Brackett. Pulsifer, of theEvening Dispatch, thinks we are going to lose the reputation we have made on our trip this season.”
“And they all make me tired!” cried Bart. “We’ll give them a chance to sing another song in their Sunday columns.”
The boys took care of themselves, lived properly and sought to come up to the game in the pink of condition.
Frank kept his eyes open for Hobart Manton, but once more Manton seemed to have disappeared completely.
From Wallace Grafter he learned that charges had been preferred at the Eagle Heights A.A. against Frost and Necker, as having attempted to assault an honorary member of the club. Merriwell had been taken into the Eagle Heights A.A. after his success at the meet in defeating two of its champions.
Saturday proved to be a fine day. The boys werein a glow of enthusiasm. When they thought of the coming struggle in Hoboken they tingled all over.
The game was to be called at 3 o’clock. At 2.30 Frank and his team reached the grounds and found a river of people crowding in at the gate. Evidently the game would be witnessed by an immense crowd.
They hurried to the dressing rooms and quickly got into their suits.
When they came out onto the field they found the Outcasts practicing.
The appearance of Merriwell’s team produced a stir and caused many of the spectators to applaud loudly.
Melvin McGann hastened to shake hands with Frank. He was beaming in a most satisfied manner.
“Look at this mob!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have hard work keeping them off the field. We’ve stretched ropes, but ropes won’t hold a crowd back if it gets too large. Here is Captain Hurley. Mr. Hurley—Mr. Merriwell.”
Hugh Hurley shook hands with Frank.
“Glad to meet you Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “You may have the field for practice.”
Frank sent his players out at once.
Bob Gowan and Mike Grafter were sitting together. Wallace Grafter joined them as the Merries trotted onto the field.
The Tammany man surveyed the youngsters in blue in a doubtful manner.
“Is this the team you told me to bet on, son?” he asked.
“Sure, dad,” nodded Wallace.
“Rather immature, some of ’em. Look like boys.”
“They are all men in years, although they do look rather boyish,” said Wallace.
“Hum!” grunted Mr. Grafter doubtfully.
Gowan grinned.
“I’ve got ye!” he wheezed. “Your money is mine! The kids won’t be in the game for a minute.”
The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of the offenders. He made a high throw to second.
“Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank.
Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low.
Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to make the throw good.
It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done.
Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect after that, and it was.
To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of that, he was impressing Bart by force of example.
As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy.
“I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better have done it. I’ll never see it again.”
Again Gowan grinned.
“Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold feet.”
“The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on Frank Merriwell, and you thinkthe whole of his bunch just as good as he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.”
“He’ll do the pitching to-day.”
“Pitching alone can’t win a game.”
“And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will show him up.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than off Merriwell.”
“Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.”
The bet was made.
There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players.
Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy chap in a baseball suit.
At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered exclamations of surprise.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as life! I must be dreaming!”
The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed in smiles.
“Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgidfor utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.”
“Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why, cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.”
“Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.”
“You are playing with the Outcasts?”
“Am I? Ask me! I am their mainstay and support. My fielding is about nine hundred and ninety-nine per cent. and my batting a trifle better than five hundred per cent. I was too fast for the Concord team of the New England League, and so they had to let me go. You see the other players didn’t have any chance to shine with me in the game. I played all round them. Not only did I fill my own field at shortstop, but I often gamboled out into the extreme gardens and picked flies and line drives right out of the fingers of the fielders. I covered all the sacks from the initial corner round to the home plate, and often I backed up the catcher. The populace stood aghast at my strenuosity, and the players became jealous and pea-green with envy.
“These envious individuals formed a combine against me. They put their caputs together—caput is French for head—they put their caputs together and formed a combine. They decided to quit in a body unless I was released. The manager had no alternative. He pleaded with them with tears in his eyes andhis fists doubled up, but they would not hearken unto reason, and so he was compelled to release me with honors. I immediately received offers from Boston, New York, Washington, Chicago, and Oshkosh. But I decided to throw my fortunes in with the noble Outcasts, and here I am.
“I’m sorry for you, Merry, old boy, but you haven’t a show with me in the game against you. Your double-shoot will not save you on this salubrious afternoon. You will remember that I acquired a spasm of the double-shoot myself, and I have had the boys batting against it for the past four days. Every man on the team can hit the double-shoot with his eyes shut. Just hand it up to them and regret it to the end of your tempestuous career.”
“So you are the chap who has been training them to bat against me? I heard some one was doing it.”
“I confess with all due humility and abnegation—abnegation is a good word, but I don’t know what it means—I confess that I am the guilty party. I had to do it. You see we haven’t been beaten thus far in our seething career, and we don’t propose to have our immaculate record sullied by defeat. The boys knew I could hand out the double-shoot. When they learned that the game with your team had been arranged, they led me forth like a lambkin to the slaughter and bade me promulgate the sphere through the atmosphere after the manner in which you are wont to do. Then they took their little bats and learned to hit it. I warn you in advance that they can connect with the ball even though you make it travel like a writhing snake through the ozone. It will grieve my tender heart tosee you batted all over the lawn, Merry; but I fear exceedingly that such will be your fate.”
“What do you think of that?” exclaimed Hodge, who had never entertained any great liking for Wiley. “He has been teaching them to bat your pet curve, Frank.”
“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.”
“The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.”
The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him.
As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position of shortstop.
“Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.”
Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed the slab.
Ready was in position to bat.
O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck.
“Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to have a passing glimpse of it.”
The umpire pronounced it a strike.
“That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see the ball.”
Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped his bat and waited for the next one.
It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the plate.
“Two strikes!” cried the umpire.
Wiley did a hornpipe.
“It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.”
“He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his tongue.”
O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high, but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders.
Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out.
The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them.