CHAPTER XXVIII.ON THE FIELD.
No baseball-game in Denver had ever turned out a larger crowd. The story of the betting had been told by the newspapers, and that, together with the fact that the great college man, Merriwell, was the manager, captain, and pitcher for the team pitted against the Reds, served to bring the people swarming to the ball-grounds.
The story of the strange injury of Bart Hodge had also been told by the papers, and they had said that Merriwell could not do his best in the box without Hodge for a catcher. This being the case, the majority of the public felt convinced that the Denver team would win.
Of course, the papers had scouted the idea that Bart’s hand had been injured to keep him from catching, even though Hodge himself hotly declared that as his firm belief. Merriwell, also, believed such to be the case, as did the other members of the team.
At first it had seemed that the nine was disastrously crippled, but Hodge had said:
“It’s my left hand. In her haste, the old hag did not stop to see if it was my throwing-hand. Hadshe put the stuff on my right hand it would have knocked me out. Now, I am going to catch.”
“But you can’t do it!” exclaimed Rattleton.
“I will!” grated Hodge. “I’ll catch, if it takes my life!”
Frank shook his head.
“I’m afraid you can’t,” he confessed. “The doctor says not.”
“Doctors do not know everything.”
“But I’d rather lose the game, and Mr. Carson says he’d rather lose his money than have you permanently injure your hand.”
“I’ll not injure it permanently. The catcher’s mitt will protect it, and I’ll be behind the bat.”
Frank admired this kind of grit, but he feared that Hodge might find himself seriously handicapped in the game.
When the afternoon of the game came, Bart got into his new suit with the others, although his hand was in a bandage.
The Reds were first to appear on the field, and the admirers of Denver’s lively independent team rose up and gave them a warm greeting. They went out at once for practise, and their work was sharp, snappy, and professional.
Just as the regular time for the practise of the home team had expired, Merriwell and his men entered thefield. They made a handsome appearance in their new suits, with a large white M on the bosom of every shirt, and the spectators generously gave them a hearty hand.
“Where’s Merriwell?”
“Where’s Hodge?”
“That’s Hodge with the bandage on his hand.”
“Is he going to catch?”
“He says he will.”
“I don’t believe he was hurt at all. It was a trick to fool the Reds.”
“Can’t fool them that way.”
“Merriwell will fool them with his double-shoot.”
“Double-shoot be jiggered! No man ever threw such a thing.”
“Wait and see.”
Such was the talk on the bleachers.
“Take the field,” said Merry, and the men trotted out.
Then practise began. Two of the Denver men batted the balls out, while Bart and Frank made ready to do some warming up on the side.
The work of the Reds had been almost flawless in practise, but such could not be said of Merry’s team. They showed their want of practise, although they went after everything with a will. Rattleton had not been playing ball for some time, and he was not usedto the ground around second, which caused him to make two bad fumbles of hot grounders.
“He’s a dead one,” declared the crowd.
Out in left field, Swiftwing misjudged the first ball he went after and failed to touch it when he should have done so.
“The Indian is no good,” decided the bleachers.
Browning had not aroused himself, and he had a supremely weary air at first.
“First base is too lazy,” said the spectators.
In this manner almost the entire team was condemned.
Bart had pulled on a mitt and Frank was throwing him some easy ones. If they hurt Bart’s hand, he made no show of it; but Merry would be compelled to use different speed than that in a game.
Black Elrich and Dan Mahoney were sitting on the bleachers. Mahoney observed:
“It’s a cinch!”
“I think so,” said Elrich.
“No need to have gone to all that trouble about the catcher,” muttered Mahoney.
“But I wanted to make sure. You know Lake said he is the only man who can hold Merriwell.”
“You’re five thousand in, with the five hundred added.”
“I reckon. But what’s this? There’s the boy Mescal was after, and he’s got a companion. Look at them! What are they going to do?”
Dick Merriwell and Old Joe Crowfoot were advancing toward the home plate.