"Oh, hammer it out, Old Eli, Old Eli,As you always have, you know;For it's sure that we're all behind you, behind you,And we will cheer you as you go.We're in the game to stay, my lads, my lads,We will win it easily, too;So give three cheers for old 'Umpty-eight—Three cheers for the boys in blue!Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!O—up! O—up!Parabaloo—Yale! Yale! Yale!'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!Yale!"
The enthusiasm which this created was immense, and the next man walked up to the plate filled with determination. However, Old Put was shrewd enough to know the man might be too eager, and so he gave the signal for him to take one anyway.
Coulter was decidedly nervous, as was apparent to everybody, and it seemed that there was a chance of getting him badly rattled. That was exactly what the Yale crowd was doing its best to accomplish.
Merriwell crept away from first for a long lead, but it was not easy to get, as Coulter drove him back with sharp throws each time. Then Blossom came near being caught napping off second, but was given "safe" on a close decision.
Suddenly Coulter delivered, and the batter obeyed Old Put and did not offer, although it was right over the heart of the plate.
"One strike!" was called.
Now came the time for the attempted double steal that Frank had suggested. Putnam decided to try it on, and he signaled for it. At the same time he signaled the batter to make a swing to bother the catcher, but not to touch the ball.
Frank pretended to cling close to first, but he was watching for Coulter's slightest preliminary motion in the way of delivery. It came, and Old Put yelled from the coach line, where he had replaced Griswold:
"Gear!"
Frank got a beautiful start, and Blossom made a break for third. If Blossom had secured a lead equal to Merriwell's he would have made third easily. As it was, the catcher snapped the ball down with a short-arm throw, and Blossom was caught by a foot.
Then it was Harvard's turn, and the Cambridge lads made the most of it. A great roar went up, and the crimson seemed to be fluttering everywhere.
"Har-vard! Har-vard! Har-vard! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Harvard!"
One strike and one ball had been called on the batter, and Merriwell was on second, with one man out. Yale was still longing vainly for scores. It began to look as if they would still be held down, and Coulter was regaining his confidence.
Frank was aware that something sensational must be done to keep Coulter on the string. He longed for an opportunity to steal third, but knew he would receive a severe call down from Old Put if he failed. Still he was ready to try if he found the opportunity.
Frank took all the lead he could secure, going up with the shortstop every time the second baseman played off to fill the right field gap. He was so lively on his feet that he could go back ahead of the baseman every time, and Coulter gave up trying to catch him after two attempts.
Frank took all the ground he could, and seeing the next ball was an outdrop he legged it for third.
"Slide! slide! slide!" howled the astonished Halliday, who was still on the coach line at third.
Frank obeyed, and he went over the ground as if he had been greased for the occasion. He made the steal with safety, having a second to spare.
Rattleton lost his breath yelling, and the entire Yale crowd howled as one man. The excitement was at fever pitch.
Bob Collingwood was gasping for breath, and he caught hold of Paul Pierson, shouting in his ear:
"What do you think of that?"
"Think of it?" returned Pierson. "It was a reckless piece of work, and Merriwell would have got fits if he'd failed."
"But he didn't fail."
"No; that lets him out. He is working to rattle Coulter, but he took desperate chances. I don't know but it's the only way to win this game."
"Of course it is."
"Merriwell is a wonderful runner. I found that out last fall, when I made up as Professor Grant and attempted to relieve him of a turkey he had captured somewhere out in the country. I blocked his road at the start, but he slugged me with the turk and then skipped. I got after him, and you know I can run some. Thought I was going to run him down easily or make him drop the bird; but I didn't do either and he got away. Oh, he is a sprinter, and it is plain he knows how to steal bases. I believe he is the best base runner on the freshman team, if he is not too reckless."
"He is a dandy!" exclaimed Collingwood. "I have thought the fellow was given too much credit, but I've changed my mind. Pierson, I believe he is swift enough for the regular team. What do you think of it?"
"I want to see more of his work before I express myself."
Merriwell's steal had indeed rattled Coulter, who became so nervous that he sent the batter down to first on four balls.
Then, with the first ball delivered to the next man up, the fellow on first struck out for second.
Merriwell was playing off third, and pretended to make a break for home as the catcher made a short throw to the shortstop, who ran in behind Coulter, took the ball and lined it back to the plate.
But Frank had whirled about and returned to third, so the play was wasted, and the runner reached second safely.
Then there was more Yale enthusiasm, and Coulter was so broken up that he gave little Danny Griswold a shoulder ball right over the heart of the plate.
Griswold "ate" high balls, as the Harvard pitcher very well knew. He did not fail to make connection with this one, and drove it to deep left for two bags, bringing in two runs.
Now the New Haven crowd took their turn, and took it in earnest. Rattleton stood upon the shoulders of a friend, and fell off upon the heads of the crowd as he was cheering. He didn't mind that, for he kept right on cheering.
"Merriwell, I believe you have broken the streak!" cried Old Put, with inexpressible satisfaction.
"Well, I sincerely hope so," returned Frank. "I rather think we are all right now, but we've got a hard pull ahead of us. Harvard is still five in the lead, you know."
"If you can hold them down—"
"I am going to do my best."
"If you save this game the boys won't do a thing when we get back to New Haven—not a thing!"
The next batter flied out to shortstop, and Griswold remained on second.
Now there was suspense, for Yale had two men out. A sudden hush fell on the field, broken only by the voices of the two coachers.
Coulter had not recovered his nerve, and the next batter got a safe hit into right field, while Danny Griswold's short legs fairly twinkled as he scudded down to third and then tore up the dust in a mighty effort to get home on a single.
Every Yale man was on his feet cheering again, and Danny certainly covered ground in a remarkable manner. Head first he went for the plate.
The right fielder secured the ball and tried to stop Danny at the plate by a long throw. The throw was all right, but Griswold was making too much speed to be caught.
The instant Old Put, who had returned to the coach line, saw that the fielder meant to throw home, he howled for the batter to keep right on for second.
Griswold scored safely, and the catcher lost little time in throwing to second.
"Slide!" howled a hundred voices.
The runner obeyed, and he got in under the baseman, who had been forced to take a high throw.
It is impossible to describe what followed. The most of the Yale spectators acted as if they had gone crazy, and those in sympathy with Harvard showed positive alarm.
Two or three men got around the captain of the Harvard team and asked him to take out Coulter.
"Put in Peck!" they urged. "They've got Coulter going, and he will lose the game right here if you do not change."
At this the captain got angry and told them to get out. When he got ready to change he would do it without anybody's advice.
Coulter continued to pitch, and the next batter got first on an error by the shortstop.
"The whole team is going to pieces!" laughed Paul Pierson. "I wouldn't be surprised to see Old Put's boys pull the game out in this inning, for all that two men are out."
"If they do so, Merriwell is the man who will deserve the credit," said Collingwood. "That is dead right."
"Yes, it is right, for he restored confidence and started the work of rattling Coulter."
"Paul," said the great man of the 'Varsity crew, "that fellow is fast enough for the regular team."
"You said so before."
"And I say so again."
Now it became evident to everybody that Coulter was in a pitiful state, for he could not find the plate at all, and the next man went down on four balls, filling the bases.
But that was not the end of it. The next batter got four balls, and a score was forced in.
Then it was seen that Peck, Harvard's change pitcher, was warming up, and it became evident that the captain had decided to put him into the box.
If the next Yale man had not been altogether too eager to get a hit, there is no telling when the inning would have stopped. He sent a high-fly foul straight into the air, and the catcher succeeded in gathering it in.
The inning closed with quite a change in the score, Harvard having a lead of but three, where it had been seven in the lead at the end of the sixth.
"I am afraid they will get on to Merriwell this time," said Sport Harris, with a shake of his head.
"Hey!" squealed Rattleton, who was quivering all over. "I'll give you a chance to even up with me. I'll bet you twenty that Harvard doesn't score."
"Oh, well, I'll have to stand you, just for fun," murmured Harris as he extracted a twenty-dollar bill from the roll it was said he always carried and handed it to Deacon Dunning. "Shove up your dough, Rattle."
Harry covered the money promptly, and then he laughed.
"This cakes the take—I mean takes the cake! I never struck such an easy way of making money! I say, fellows, we'll open something after the game, and I'll pay for it with what I win off Harris."
"That will be nice," smiled Harris; "but you may not be loaded with my money after the game."
The very first batter up, got first on an error by the second baseman who let an easy one go through him.
"The money is beginning to look my way as soon as this," said Harris.
"It is looking your way to bid you good-by," chuckled Harry, not in the least disturbed or anxious.
Merriwell had a way of snapping his left foot out of the box for a throw to first, and it kept the runner hugging the bag all the time.
Frank also had another trick of holding the ball in his hand and appearing to give his trousers a hitch, upon which he would deliver the ball when neither runner nor batter was expecting him to do so, and yet his delivery was perfectly proper.
He struck the next man out, and the batter to follow hit a weak one to third, who stopped the runner at second.
Two men were out, and still there was a man on first. Now it looked dark for Harvard that inning, and not a safe hit had been made off Merriwell thus far.
The Harvard crowd was getting anxious. Was it possible that Merriwell would hold them down so they could not score, and Yale would yet pull out by good work at the bat?
The captain said a few words to the next batter before the man went up to the plate, and Frank felt sure the fellow had been advised to take his time.
Having made up his mind to this, Frank sent a swift straight one directly over, and, as he had expected, the batter let it pass, which caused the umpire to call a strike.
Still keeping the runner hugging first, Frank seemed to start another ball in exactly the same manner. It was not a straight one, but it was a very slow drop, as the batter discovered after he had commenced to swing. Finding he could not recover, the fellow went after the ball with a scooping movement, and then did not come within several inches of it, greatly to the delight of the Yale crowd.
"Oh, Merry has every blooming one of them on a string!" cried Rattleton. "He thon't do a wing to 'em—I mean he won't do a thing to 'em."
The Yale men were singing songs of victory already, and the Harvard crowd was doing its best to keep up the courage of its team by rooting hard.
It was a most exciting game.
"The hottest game I ever saw played by freshmen," commented Collingwood.
"It is a corker," confessed Pierson. "We weren't looking for anything of the sort a short time ago."
"I should say not. Up to the time Merriwell went in it looked as if Harvard had a walkover."
"Gordon feels bad enough about it, that is plain. He is trying to appear cheerful on the bench, but—"
"He can't stand it any longer; he's leaving."
That was right. Gordon had left the players' bench and was walking away. He tried to look pleased at the way things were going, but the attempt was a failure.
"Merriwell is the luckiest fellow alive," he thought. "If I had stayed in another inning the game might have changed. He is pitching good ball, but I'm hanged if I can understand why they do not hit him. It looks easy."
Neither could the Harvard lads thoroughly understand it, although there were some who realized that Merriwell was using his head, as well as speed and curves. And he did not use speed all the time. He had a fine change of pace, sandwiching in his slow balls at irregular intervals, but delivering them with what seemed to be exactly the same motion that he used on the speedy ones.
The fourth batter up struck out, and again Harvard was retired without a score, which caused the Yale crowd to cheer so that some of the lads got almost black in the face.
"Well! well! well!" laughed Rattleton, as Deacon Dunning passed over the money he had been holding. "This is like chicking perries—I mean picking cherries. All I have to do is to reach out and take what I want."
"If the boys will capture the game I'll be perfectly satisfied to lose," declared Harris, who did not tell the truth, however, for he was chagrined, although he showed not a sign of it.
"How can we lose? how can we lose?" chuckled Harry. "Things are coming our way, as the country editor said when he was rotten-egged by the mob."
It really seemed that Yale was out for the game at last, for they kept up their work at the bat, although Peck replaced Coulter in the box for Harvard.
Merriwell had his turn with the first batter up. One man was out, and there was a man on second. Coulter had warned Peck against giving Merriwell an outcurve. At the same time, knowing Frank had batted to right field before, the fielders played over toward right.
"So you are on to that, are you?" thought Frank. "Well, it comes full easier for me to crack 'em into left field if I am given an inshoot."
Two strikes were called on him before he found anything that suited him. Harris was on the point of betting Rattleton odds that Merriwell did not get a hit, when Frank found what he was looking for and sent it sailing into left. It was not a rainbow, so it did not give the fielder time to get under it, although he made a sharp run for it.
Then it was that Merriwell seemed to fly around the bases, while the man ahead of him came in and scored. At first the hit had looked like a two-bagger, but there seemed to be a chance of making three out of it as Frank reached second, and the coachers sent him along. He reached third ahead of the ball, and then the Yale crowd on the bleachers did their duty.
"How do you Harvard chaps like Merriwell's style?" yelled a Yale enthusiast as the cheering subsided.
Then there was more cheering, and the freshmen of 'Umpty-eight were entirely happy.
The man who followed Frank promptly flied out to first, which quenched the enthusiasm of the Yale gang somewhat and gave Harvard's admirers an opportunity to make a noise.
Frank longed to get in his score, which would leave Harvard with a lead of but one. He felt that he must get home some way.
Danny Griswold came to the bat.
"Get me home some way, Danny," urged Frank.
The little shortstop said not a word, but there was determination in his eyes. He grasped his stick firmly and prayed for one of his favorite high balls.
But Peck kept them low on Danny, who took a strike, and then was pulled on a bad one.
With two strikes on him and only one ball, the case looked desperate for Danny. Still he did not lose his nerve. He did not think he could not hit the ball, but he made himself believe that he was bound to hit it. To himself he kept saying:
"I'll meet it next time—I'll meet it sure."
He knew the folly of trying to kill the ball in such a case, and so when he did swing, his only attempt was to meet it squarely. In this he succeeded, and he sent it over the second baseman's head, but it fell short of the fielder.
Merriwell came home while Griswold was going down to first.
And now it needed but one score for Yale to tie Harvard.
The man who followed Griswold dashed all their hopes by hitting a weak one to short and forcing Danny out at second.
Harvard cheered their men as they came in from the field.
"We must make some scores this time, boys," said the Harvard captain. "A margin of one will never do, with those fellows hitting anything and everything."
"That's exactly what they are doing," said Peck. "They are getting hits off balls they have no business to strike at."
"Oh, you are having your troubles," grinned a friend.
"Any one is bound to have when batters are picking them off the clouds or out of the dirt. It doesn't make much difference where they are."
"This man Merriwell can't hold us down as he has done," asserted Dickson, Harvard's first baseman.
"I don't know; he is pretty cagey," admitted Nort Gibson.
"I believe he is the best pitcher we'll strike this season," said another.
"Here, here, you fellows!" broke in the captain. "You are getting down-hearted, and that won't do. We've got this game and we are going to hold it; but we want to go in to clinch it right here."
They didn't do much clinching, for although the first man up hit the ball, he got to first on an error by the third baseman, who fumbled in trying to pick it up.
Blossom was the third baseman, and he was confused by his awkwardness, expecting to get a call down.
"Steady, Blos, old boy!" said Frank, gently. "You are all right. The best of us do those things occasionally. It is nothing at all."
These words relieved Blossom's feelings and made him vow that he would not let another ball play chase around his feet.
Frank struck the next man out, and held the runner on first while he was doing it. The third man sent an easy pop-fly to Blossom, who got hold of it and clung to it for dear life.
Then the runner got second on a passed ball, but he advanced no farther, for the following batter rolled a weak one down to Frank, who gathered it in and threw the man out at first.
In three innings not a safe hit had been made off Merriwell, and he had struck out five men. No wonder his admirers cheered him wildly as he went to the bench.
Yale started in to make some scores. The very first man up got a hit and stole second. The next man went to the bat with the determination to slug the ball, but Old Put signaled for a sacrifice, as the man was a good bunt hitter.
The sacrifice was tried, and it worked, for the man on second got third, although the batter was thrown out at first.
"Now we need a hit!" cried Put. "It takes one to tie and two to win. A hit ties the game."
Rattleton offered to bet Harris two to one that Yale would win, but Sport declined the offer.
"It's our game fast enough," he said. "You are welcome to what you have won off me. I am satisfied."
But the game was not won. Amid the most intense excitement the next man fouled out.
Then Peck seemed to gather himself to save the game for Harvard. He got some queer quirks into his delivery, and, almost before the Yale crowd could realize it, two strikes were called on the batter.
The Yale rooters tried to rattle Peck, but they succeeded in rattling the batter instead, and, to their unutterable dismay and horror, he fanned at a third one, missed it, and—
"Batter is out!" cried the umpire.
Then a great roar for Harvard went up, and the dazed freshmen from New Haven realized they were defeated after all.
"It wasn't Merriwell's fault that the freshies didn't win," said Bob Collingwood to Paul Pierson as they were riding back to New Haven on the train that night.
"Not a bit of it," agreed Pierson. "I was expecting a great deal of Merriwell, but I believe he is a better man than I thought he could be."
"Then you have arrived at the conclusion that he is fast enough for the regular team?"
"I rather think he is."
"Will you give him a trial?"
"We may. It is a bad thing for any freshman to get an exalted opinion of himself and his abilities, for it is likely to spoil him. I don't want to spoil Merriwell—"
"Look here," interrupted Collingwood, impulsively. "I am inclined to doubt if it is an easy thing to spoil that fellow. He hasn't put on airs since coming to Yale, has he?"
"No."
"Instead of that, he has lived rather simply—far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor."
"That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living."
"Yet I have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he may live as swell as he likes while he is here. What do you think of that?"
"It may be true," admitted Pierson. "He is an original sort of chap—"
"But they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in Collingwood, swiftly. "He isn't living cheap for economy's sake. You know he doesn't drink."
"Yes. I have made inquiries about his habits."
"Still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz, for which he settles. And he is liberal in other ways."
"He is an enigma in some ways."
"I have heard a wild sort of story about him, but I don't take much stock in it. It is the invention of some fertile brain."
"What is it?"
"Oh, a lot of trash about his having traveled all over the world, been captured by pirates and cannibals, fought gorillas and tigers, shot elephants and so forth. Of course that's all rot."
"Of course. What does he say about it?"
"Oh, he simply laughs at the stories. If a fellow asks him point-blank if they are true he tells him not to let anybody string him. He seems to regard the whole business as a weak sort of joke that some fellow is trying to work."
"Without doubt that's what it is, for he's too young to have had such adventures. Besides that, there's no fellow modest enough to deny it if he had had them."
"Of course there isn't."
In this way that point was settled in their minds, for the time, at least.
There was no band to welcome 'Umpty-eight back to New Haven. No crowd of cheering freshmen was at the station, and those who had gone on to Cambridge to play and to see the game got off quietly—very quietly—and hurried to their rooms.
Merriwell was in his room ahead of Rattleton. Harry finally appeared, wearing a sad and doleful countenance.
"What's the matter, old man?" asked Frank as Harry came in and flung his hat on the floor, after which he dropped upon a chair. "You do not seem to feel well."
"I should think you would eel felegant—I mean feel elegant!" snapped Harry, glaring at Frank.
"Oh, what's the use to be all broken up over a little thing?"
"Wow! Little thing!" whooped Harry. "I'd like to know what you call a little thing—I would, by jee!"
"You are excited, my boy. Calm down somewhat."
"Oh, I am calm!" shouted Harry as he jumped up and kicked the chair flying into a corner. "I am perfectly calm!" he roared, tearing up and down the room. "I never was calmer in all my life!"
"You look it!" came in an amused manner from Frank's lips. "You are so very calm that it is absolutely soothing and restful to the nerves to observe you!"
Harry stopped short before Frank, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, thrust his head forward, and glared fiercely into Merriwell's face.
"There are times when it positively is a crime not to swear," he hoarsely said. "It seems to me that this is one of the times. If you will cuss a little it will relieve my feelings immensely."
"Why don't you swear?" laughed Frank.
"Why don't I? Poly hoker—no, holy poker! I have been swearing all the way from Cambridge to New Haven, and I have completely run out of profanity."
"Well, I think you have done enough for both of us."
"Oh, indeed! Well, that is hard of me! I came in here expecting to find you breaking the furniture, and you are as calm and serene as a summer's morning. I tell you, Frank, it is an awful shock! And you are the one who should do the most swearing. I can't understand you, hanged if I can!"
"Well, you know there is an old saw that says it is useless to cry over spilled milk—"
"Confound your old saws! Crying and swearing are two different things. Don't you ever cuss, Frank?"
"Never."
"Well, I'd like to know how you can help it on an occasion like this! That is what gets me."
"Never having acquired the habit, it is very easy to get along without swearing, which is, beyond a doubt, the most foolish habit a man can get into."
Rattleton held up both hands, with a look of absolute horror on his face.
"Don't—don't preach now!" he protested. "I think the habit of swearing is a blessing sometimes—an absolute blessing. A man can relieve his feelings that way when he can't any other."
"You don't seem to have succeeded in relieving your feelings much."
"I don't? Well, you should have seen me when I got aboard the train! I was at high pressure, and there was absolute danger of an explosion. I just had to open the safety valve and blow off. And I find you as calm as a clock! Oh, Frank, it is too much—too much!" and Harry pretended to weep.
"Go it, old man," he smiled. "You will feel better pretty soon."
"I don't know whether I will or not!" snapped Harry. "It was a sheastly bame—I mean a beastly shame! That game was ours!"
"Not quite. It came very near being ours."
"It was! Why, you actually had it pulled out! You held those fellows down and never gave them a single safe hit! That was wonderful work!"
"Oh, I don't know. They are not such great batters."
"Gordon found them pretty fast. I tell you some of those fellows are batters—good ones, too."
"Well, they didn't happen to get onto my delivery."
"Happen! happen! happen! There was no happen about it. They couldn't get onto you. You had them at your mercy. It was wonderful pitching, and I can lick the gun of a son—er—son of a gun that says it wasn't!"
"I had a chance to size every man up while Gordon was pitching, and that gave me the advantage."
"That makes me tired! Of course you had time to size them up; but you couldn't have kept them without a hit if you hadn't been a dandy pitcher. Your modesty is simply sickening sometimes!"
Then Harry pranced up and down the room like am infuriated tiger, almost gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth.
"If I didn't think I could pitch some I wouldn't try it." said Frank, quietly. "But I am not fool enough to think I am the only one. There are others."
"Well, they are not freshmen, and I'll tell you that."
"I don't know about that."
"I do."
"All right. Have it as you like it."
"And you batted like a fiend. Twice at bat and two hits—a two-bagger and a three-bagger."
"A single and a three-bagger, if you please."
"Well, what's the matter with that? Whee jiz—mean jee whiz! Could anybody ask for anything more? You got the three-bagger just when it was needed most, and you would have saved the game if you had come to the bat in the last inning."
"You think so, but it is all guesswork. I might have struck out."
"You might, but you wouldn't. Oh, merry thunder! To think that a little single would have tied that game, and we couldn't get it! It actually makes me ill at the pit of my stomach!"
The expression on Harry's face seemed to indicate that he told the truth, for he certainly looked ill.
"Don't take it to heart so, my boy," said Frank. "The poor chaps earned that game, and they ought to have it. We'll win the last one of the series, and that's all we want. Do you want to bury poor old Harvard?"
"You can't bury her so deep that she won't crawl out, and you know that. Those fellows are decidedly soon up at Cambridge, and Yale does well to get all she can from them. You can't tell what will happen next game. They have seen you, and they may have a surprise to spring on us. If we pulled this game off the whole thing would be settled now."
"Don't think for a moment that I underestimate Harvard. She is Yale's greatest rival and is bound to do us when she can.
"We made a good bid for the game to-day, but it wasn't our luck to win, and so we may as well swallow our medicine and keep still."
"It wasn't a case of luck at all," spluttered Harry. "It was sheer bull-headedness, that's what it was! If Put had put you in long before he did the game might have been saved."
"He didn't like to pull Gordon out, you see."
"Well, if he's running this team on sentiment, the sooner he quits the better it will be for the team."
Frank said nothing, but he could not help feeling that Harry was right. Managing a ball team is purely a matter of business, and if a manager is afraid to hurt anybody's feelings he is a poor man for the position.
"Why didn't he put you in in the first place?" asked Harry.
"I don't know. I suppose he had reasons."
"Oh, yes, he had reasons! And I rather think I know what they were. I am sure I do."
"What were they?"
"Didn't you expect to pitch the game from the start to-day?"
"Yes, I did."
"I thought so."
Harry nodded, as if fully satisfied that he understood the whole matter.
"Well," said Frank, a bit sharply, "you have not explained yourself. I am curious to know why I was not put into the box at the start."
"Well, I am glad to see you show some emotion, if it is nothing more than curiosity. I had begun to think you would not show as much as that."
"Naturally I am curious."
"Do you know that Paul Pierson, manager of the 'Varsity team, went on to see this game?"
"Yes."
"Why do you suppose he did so?"
"Oh, he is acquainted with several Harvard fellows, and I presume he went to see them as much as to see the game."
"He wasn't with any Harvard fellows at the game."
"Well, what are you trying to get at?"
"Don't be in a hurry," said Harry, who was now speaking with unusual calmness. "You regard Old Put as your friend?"
"I always have."
"But you think he didn't use you just right to-day?"
"I will confess that I don't like to be used to fall back on with the hope that I may pull out a game somebody else has lost."
Harry nodded his satisfaction.
"I knew you would feel that way, unless you had suddenly grown foolish. It's natural and it's right. There is no reason why you shouldn't be the regular pitcher for our team, but still Gordon is regarded as the pitcher, while you are the change pitcher. Frank, there is a nigger in the woodpile."
"You will have to make yourself clearer than that."
"Putnam knew that Pierson was going to be present at the game."
"Well?"
"Pierson didn't go on to see any Harvard friends. He couldn't afford the time just at this season with all he has on his hands."
"Go on."
"Putnam knew Pierson was not there to see any Harvard men."
"Oh, take your time."
Harry grinned. He was speaking with such deliberation that he did not once twist his words or expressions about, as he often did when excited and in a hurry.
"That's why you wasn't put in at the start-off," he declared.
"What is why? You will have to make the whole matter plainer than you have so far. It is hazy."
"Putnam did not want Pierson to see you pitch."
"He didn't? Why not?"
"Because Pierson was there for that very purpose."
"Get out!"
"I know what I am talking about. You have kept still about it, but Pierson himself has let the cat out of the bag."
"What cat?"
"He has told—confidentially, you know—that he has thoughts of giving you a trial on the regular team. The parties he told repeated it—confidentially, you know—to others. It finally came to my ears. Old Put heard of it. Now, while Old Put seems to be your friend, he doesn't want to lose you, and he had taken every precaution to keep you in the background. He has made Gordon more prominent, and he has not let you do much pitching for Pierson to see. He permitted you to go in to-day because he was afraid Gordon would go all to pieces, and he knew what a howl would go up if he didn't do something."
Frank walked up and down the room. He did not permit himself to show any great amount of excitement, but there was a dark look on his handsome face that told he was aroused. Harry saw that his roommate was stirred up at last.
"As I have said," observed Frank, halting and speaking grimly. "I have regarded Burnham Putnam as my friend; but if he has done as you claim for the reasons you give he has not shown himself to be very friendly. There is likely to be an understanding between us."
Rattleton nodded.
"That's right," he said. "He may deny it, but I know I am not off my trolley. He didn't want Piersan to see you work because he was afraid you would show up so well that Pierson would nail you for the regular team."
"And you think that is why I have been kept in the background so much since the season opened?"
"I am dead sure of it."
"Putnam must have a grudge against me."
"No, Frank; but he has displayed selfishness in the matter. I believe he has considered you a better man than Gordon all along, and he wanted you on the team to use in case he got into a tight corner. That's why he didn't want Pierson to see you work. He didn't want to lose you. But he was forced to use you to-day, and you must have satisfied Pierson that you know your business."
"Well, Harry, you have thrown light on dark places. To-morrow I will have a little talk with Put about this matter."
"That's right," grinned Harry; "and Pierson is liable to have a little talk with you. You'll be on the regular team inside of a week."
On the following day the great topic of conversation for the class of 'Umpty-eight was the recent ball game. Wherever the freshmen gathered they discussed the game and the work of Gordon and Merriwell.
Gordon was a free-and-easy sort of fellow, and he had his friends and admirers, some of whom were set in their belief that he was far superior to Merriwell as a pitcher.
Roland Ditson attempted to argue on two or three occasions in favor of Gordon, but nobody paid attention to what he said, for it was known that he had tried by every possible means to injure Merriwell and had been exposed in a contemptible piece of treachery, so that no one cared to be known as his friend and associate.
Whenever Ditson would approach a group of lads and try to get in a few words he would be listened to in stony silence for some moments, and then the entire crowd would turn and walk away, without replying to his remarks or speaking to him at all.
This would have driven a fellow less sensitive than Ditson to abandon all hope of going through Yale. Of course it cut Ditson, but he would grind his teeth and mutter:
"Merriwell is to blame for it all, curse him! I won't let him triumph! The time will come when I'll get square with him! I'll have to stay here in order to get square, and stay here I will, no matter how I am treated."
Since his duplicity had been made known and his classmates had turned against him Ditson had taken to grinding in a fierce manner, and as a result he had made good progress in his studies. He was determined to stand ahead of Merriwell in that line, at least, and it really seemed that he might succeed, unless Frank gave more time to his studies and less to athletics.
This was not easy for a fellow in Merriwell's position and with his ardent love for all sorts of manly sports to do. He gave all the time he could to studies without becoming a greasy grind, but that was not as much as he would have liked.
To Ditson's disappointment and chagrin Merriwell seemed quite unaware that his enemy stood ahead of him in his classes. Frank seemed to have quite forgotten that such a person as Roll Ditson existed.
Ditson was an outcast. The fellow with whom he had roomed had left him shortly after his treachery was made public, and he was forced to room alone, as he could get no one to come in with him.
Roll did not mind this so much, however. He pretended that he was far more exclusive than the average freshman, and he tried to imitate the ways of the juniors and seniors, some of whom had swell apartments.
Ditson's parents were wealthy, and they furnished him with plenty of loose change, so that he could cut quite a dash. He had fancied that his money would buy plenty of friends for him. At first, before his real character was known, he had picked up quite a following, but he posed as a superior, which made him disliked by the very ones who helped him spend his money.
He had hoped to be a leader at Yale, but, to his dismay, he found that he did not cut much of a figure after all, and Frank Merriwell, a fellow who never drank or smoked, was far more popular. Then it was that Ditson conceived a plot to bring Merriwell into ridicule and at the same time to get in with the enemies of the freshmen—the sophomores—himself.
At last he had learned that at Yale a man is not judged so much by the money he spends and the wealth of his parents as by his own manly qualities.
But Ditson was a sneak by nature, and he could not get over it. If he started out to accomplish anything in a square way, he was likely to fancy that it could be done with less trouble in a crooked manner, and his natural instinct would switch him off from the course he should have followed.
He was not at all fond of Walter Gordon, but he liked him better than he did Merriwell, and it was gall and wormwood for him when he heard how Merriwell had replaced Gordon in the box at Cambridge and had pitched a marvelous game for three innings.
"Oh, it's just that fellow's luck!" Roll muttered to himself. "He seems to be lucky in everything he does. The next thing I'll hear is that he is going to pitch on the 'Varsity team."
He little thought that this was true, but it proved to be. That very day he heard some sophomores talking on the campus, and he lingered near enough to catch their words.
"Is it actually true, Parker, that Pierson has publicly stated that Merriwell is fast enough for the Varsity nine?" asked Tad Horner.
"That's what it is," nodded Puss Parker, "and I don't know but Pierson is right. I am inclined to think so."
"Rot!" exclaimed Evan Hartwick, sharply. "I don't take stock in anything of the sort. Merriwell may make a pitcher some day, but he is raw. Why, he would get his eye batted out if he were to go up against Harvard on the regular team."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Andy Emery. "He is pretty smooth people. Is there anybody knows Pierson made such an observation concerning him?"
"Yes, there is," answered Parker.
"Who knows it?"
"I do."
"Did you hear him?"
"I did."
"That settles it."
"Yes, that settles it!" grated Roland Ditson as he walked away. "Parker didn't lie, and Pierson has intimated that Merriwell may be given a trial on the Varsity nine. If he is given a trial it will be his luck to succeed. He must not be given a trial. How can that be prevented?"
Then Ditson set himself to devise some scheme to prevent Frank from obtaining a trial on the regular nine. It was not an easy thing to think of a plan that would not involve himself in some way, and he felt that it must never be known that he had anything to do with such a plot.
That night Ditson might have been seen entering a certain saloon in New Haven, calling one of the barkeepers aside, and holding a brief whispered conversation with him.
"Is Professor Kelley in?" asked Roll.
"He is, sir," replied the barkeeper. "Do you wish to see him?"
"Well—ahem!—yes, if he is alone."
"I think he is alone. I do not think any of his pupils are with him at present, sir."
"Will you be kind enough to see?" asked Ditson. "This is a personal matter—something I want kept quiet."
The barkeeper disappeared into a back room, was gone a few minutes, and then returned and said:
"The professor is quite alone. Will you go up, sir?"
"Y-e-s," said Roll, glancing around, and then motioning for the barkeeper to lead the way.
He was taken into a back room and shown a flight of stairs.
"Knock at the door at the head of the flight," instructed the barkeeper, and after giving the man some money Ditson went up the stairs.
"Come in!" called a harsh voice when he knocked at the door.
Ditson found Kelley sitting with his feet on a table, while he smoked a strong-smelling cigar. There were illustrated sporting papers on the table, crumpled and ragged.
"Well, young feller, watcher want?" demanded the man, withont removing his feet from the table or his hat from his head.
Ditson closed the door. He was very pale and somewhat agitated.
"Are we all alone?" he asked, choking a bit over the question.
"Dat's wot we are," nodded the professor.
"Is it a sure thing that our conversation cannot be overheard?"
"Dead sure."
Ditson hesitated. He seemed to find it difficult to express himself just as he desired.
"Speak right out, chummy," said Kelley in a manner intended to be reassuring. "I rudder t'inks yer wants ter lick some cove, an' yer've come ter me ter put yer in shape ter do der job. Well, you bet yer dough I'm der man ter do dat. How many lessons will yer have?"
"It is not that at all," declared Roll.
"Not dat?" cried Kelley in surprise. "Den wot do youse want?"
"Well, you see, it is like this—er, like this," faltered Roland. "I—I've got an enemy."
"Well, ain't dat wot I said?"
"But I don't want to fight him."
"Oh, I sees! Yer wants some odder chap ter do de trick?"
"Yes, that is it. But I want them to more than lick him."
"More dan lick him? W'y, yer don't want him killed, does yer?"
"No," answered Ditson, hoarsely; "but I want his right arm broken."
"Hey?"
Down came Buster Kelley's feet from the table, upon which his knuckles fell, and then he arose from the chair, standing in a crouching position, with his hands resting on the table, across which he glared at Roland Ditson.
"Hey?" he squawked. "Just say dat ag'in, cully."
Roll was startled, and looked as if he longed to take to his heels and get away as quickly as possible; but he did not run, and he forced himself to say:
"This is a case of business, professor. I will pay liberally to have the job done as I want it."
"An' youse wants a bloke's arm bruck?"
"Yes."
"Well, dis is a quare deal! If yer wanted his head bruck it wouldn't s'prise me; but ter want his arm bruck—jee!"
"I don't care if he gets a rap on the head at the same time, but I don't want him killed. I want his right arm broken, and that is the job I am ready to pay for."
Kelley straightened up somewhat, placed one hand on his hip, while the other rested on the table, crossed his legs, and regarded Ditson steadily with a stare that made Roll very nervous.
"I might 'a' knowed yer didn't want ter fight him yerself," the professor finally said, and Ditson did not fail to detect the contempt in his face and voice.
"No, I do not," declared Ditson, an angry flush coming to his face. "He is a scrapper, and I do not think I am his match in a brutal fight."
"Brutal is good! An' yer wants his arm bruck? Don't propose to give him no show at all, eh?"
"I don't care a continental what is done so long as he is fixed as I ask."
"I s'pose ye're one of them stujent fellers?"
"Yes, I am a student."
"An' t'other feller is a stujent?"
"Yes."
"Dem fellers is easy."
"Then you will do the job for me, will you?"
"Naw!" snorted Kelley. "Not on yer nacheral! Wot d'yer take me fer? I don't do notting of dat kind. I've got a repertation to sustain, I has."
Ditson looked disappointed.
"I am willing to pay well to have the job done," he sad.
"Well, yer can find somebody ter do it fer yer."
"But I don't know where to find anybody, professor."
Kelley sat down, relighted his cigar, restored his feet to the table, picked up a paper, seemed about to resume reading, and then observed:
"Dis is no infermation bureau, but I s'pose I might put yer onter a cove dat'd do der trick fer yer if yuse come down heavy wid der stuff."
"If you will I shall be ever so much obliged."
"Much erbliged don't but no whiskey. Money talks, me boy."
Ditson reached into his pocket and produced some money.
"I will give you five dollars to tell me of a man who will do the job for me," he said, pulling a five-dollar bill from the roll.
"Make it ten an' I goes yer," said Kelley, promptly.
"Done. Here is your money."
Ditson handed it over.
"I'd oughter made it twenty," grumbled the pugilist. "Dis business is outer my line entirely, an' I don't want ter be mixed up in it at all—see? I has a repertation ter sustain, an' it wouldn't do fer nobody ter know I ever hed anyt'ing ter do wid such a job as dis."
"There is no danger that anybody will ever know it," declared Ditson, impatiently. "I will not say anything about it."
"Well, yer wants ter see dat yer don't. If yer do, I'll hunt yer up meself, an' I won't do a t'ing ter youse—not a t'ing!"
"Save your threats and come to business. I am impatient to get away, as I do not care to be seen here by anybody who may drop in."
"Don't care ter be seen here! I like dat—nit! Better men dan youse has been here, an' don't yer fergit dat!"
"Oh, I don't care who has been here! You have the money. Now tell me where I can find the man I want."
"D'yer know Plug Kirby?"
"No."
"Well, he is der feller yer wants."
"Where can I find him?"
"I'll give yer his address."
Kelley took a stub of a pencil out of his vest pocket and wrote with great labor on the margin of one of the papers. This writing he tore off and handed to Ditson. Then, without another word, he once more restored his feet to the top of the table and resumed reading as if there was no one in the room.
Ditson went out without a word. When he was gone Kelley looked over the top of the paper toward the door and growled:
"Dat feller's no good! If he'd wanted ter fit der odder feller hisself I'd tole him how ter bruck der odder chap's wrist, but he ain't got der sand ter fight a baby. He makes me sad! I'd like ter t'ump him a soaker on de jaw meself."
That evening Frank went out to call on some friends. He was returning to his rooms between ten and eleven, when, as he came to a dark corner, a man suddenly stepped out and said:
"Give us a light, young feller."
"I have none," said Frank, attempting to pass.
"Den give us a match," demanded the man, blocking the road.
"As I do not smoke I never carry matches."
"Well, den, I s'pose I'll have ter go wit'out er light, but—you'll take dat!"
Like a flash the man struck straight and hard at the youth's face. It was a wicked blow, delivered with marvelous swiftness, and must have knocked Frank down if it had landed.
But Merriwell had suspected all along that it was not a light the man was after, and he had been on the watch for just such a move as was made. For all of the man's swiftness Frank dodged, and the blow passed over his shoulder.
When Frank ducked he also struck out with his left, which he planted in the pit of the assailant's stomach.
It was a heavy blow, and for a moment it rounded the man up. Before the ruffian could recover he received a thump under the ear that made him see stars and sent him sprawling.
But the man had a hard head, and he hastily got upon his feet, uttering fierce words. He expected to see the youth in full flight, and was astonished to perceive that Frank had not taken to his heels.
With a snarl of fury the wretch rushed at Merriwell.
Frank dodged again and came up under the man's arm, giving him another heavy blow. Then the man turned, and they sparred for a moment.
"Durned if youse ain't der liveliest kid I ever seen!" muttered the astonished ruffian. "Youse kin fight!"
"Well, I can fight enough to take care of myself," returned the lad, with something like a laugh.
Smack! smack! smash! Three blows in rapid succession caused the ruffian to reel and gasp. Then for a few moments the fight was savage and swift.
It did not last long. The ruffian had been drinking, and Frank soon had the best of it. He ended the encounter by striking the man a regular knockout blow, and the fellow went down in a heap.
When the ruffian recovered he was astonished to find Frank had not departed, but was bending over him.
"How do you feel?" the boy calmly inquired.
"Say, I'm all broke up!" was the feeble reply. "Are youse der feller wot done me?"
"I presume I am."
"Well, wot yer waitin' fer?"
"To see how badly you are hurt. Your head struck the stones with frightful force when you fell."
"Did it? Well, it feels dat way! Here's a lump as big as yer fist. But wot d'youse care?"
"I didn't know but your skull was fractured."
"Wot difference did dat make?"
"I didn't want you to remain here and suffer with a broken head."
"Didn't, eh? An' I tried ter do ye up widout givin' yer any warnin'! Dis is der quarest deal I ever struck! I was tryin' ter knock yer stiff an' den break year arm."
"Break my arm?"
"Dat's wot I was here fer."
Frank was interested.
"Then you were here on purpose to meet me?"
"Sure, Mike."
"But why were you going to break my arm?"
"'Cause dat's wot I was paid fer, me boy."
Frank caught hold of the ruffian, who had arisen to a sitting posture and was holding onto his head.
"Paid for?" cried the boy, excitedly. "Do you mean to tell me that you were paid to waylay me and break my arm?"
"I didn't mean ter tell yer anyt'ing, but a feller wot kin fight like you kin an' den stay ter see if a chap wot tried ter do him was hurt—dat kind of a feller oughter be told."
"Then tell me—tell me all about it," urged Merriwell.
"Dere ain't much ter tell. Some sneak wanted yer arm broke, an' he came ter me ter do der job. He paid me twenty ter lay fer youse an' fix yer. I was hard up an' I took der job, dough I didn't like it much. Den he put me onter yer, an' I follored yer ter der house where youse went dis evenin'. I watched till yer comes out, and den I skips roun' ter head yer off yere. I heads yer an' asks fer a light. Youse knows der rest better dan wot I does."
"Well, this is decidedly interesting! So I have an enemy who wants my arm broken?"
"Yes, yer right arm."
"That would fix me so I'd never pitch any more."
"Dat's wot's likely, if ye're a pitcher."
"Would you know the person who hired you if you were to see him again?"
"Sure."
"Did he give you his name?"
"Dat's wot he did."
"Ha! That's what I want! See here! Tell me his name, or by the gods of war I will see that you are arrested and shoved for this night's work!"
"An' you will let me off if I tells?"
"Yes."
"Swear it."
"I swear it!"
"You won't make a complaint agin' me?"
"I will not."
"Well, den, yere's his card wot he give me.'"
The ruffian fumbled in his pocket and took out a card, which he passed to Frank, who eagerly grasped it.
"Here's a match, me boy," said the man. "I had a pocketful w'en I braced yer for one."
He passed a match to Frank, who hastily struck it on a stone and then held it so that he could read the name that was engraved on the card in his fingers.
A cry of astonishment broke from Merriwell's lips, and both card and match fell from his fingers to the ground.
This is the name he had read upon the card:
"Mr. Burnham Putnam."