CHAPTER XXIII.
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 nearhis 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.”