"I say, Merry," said Rattleton, the day before the race was to come off, "you can't guess who Gordon is chumming with lately."
"I don't know as I can. Who is it?"
"Ditson."
"Get out!"
"That's on the level."
"But Ditson the same as suggested outright that Gordon was the traitor who had told the sophs so much."
"That is true, but Gordon doesn't know it."
"Well, he ought to. What do you think Ditson is doing?"
"Oh, he is working Gordon, who has been drinking like a fish since Old Put dropped him."
Frank was troubled. He did not approve of Ditson, and he feared that Gordon had a weak nature, so that he could be easily influenced. Walter had greatly taken to heart being dropped by Putnam, and he seemed utterly reckless and careless about himself. If he did not look out, he was almost sure to get into trouble and find himself "rusticated" or sent home for good.
Merriwell could not help thinking it possible that Gordon had been innocent and that a mistake had been made in dropping him, as it might discourage him so that he would go to the bad. This worried Frank not a little.
"I'll have to make Ditson call a halt," he said to Harry. "He must be told to let up on Gordon."
"Now, that is dead right," nodded Harry, who was inclined to be generous and kindly toward the fellow who might have filled his place on the freshman crew. "I tell you that Ditson is a bad man, and I would not trust him as far as I can fling a cow by the tail."
"I'll get after him at the first opportunity," promised Frank.
Harry went out and had a talk with Bandy Robinson about the matter. Robinson admitted that he did not have much use for either Gordon or Ditson, but he was inclined to think Gordon the better fellow of the two.
That night Merriwell and Rattleton retired early, but they were not allowed to go to sleep. Barely were they in bed before there was a knock on the door, and they found Robinson and one of the fellows who lived in the house were there.
"Say," said Bandy, "Ditson and Gordon are down at Billy's, and Gordon has a great load on. I have told Ditson to let him alone, but was advised to mind my own business. Ditson is deliberately getting Gordon stiff."
"Is that so?" cried Frank as he made a jump for his clothes. "Well, I think I will have a talk with Mr. Ditson."
Frank and Harry dressed quickly, and away they went with Robinson and his companion toward Billy's.
On arriving at Billy's they were told that Ditson and Gordon were in the little corner behind the screen. Gordon was opening champagne, and both fellows were pretty well intoxicated.
Harry slipped up behind the screen, stood on a chair, and peered over. As he did so he heard Ditson say:
"That's right, Walter. Merriwell rubbed dirt all over you. He is trying to become another king, like Browning, but you can bet I don't lose any opportunity to throw him down."
"Throw him down! throw him down!" echoed Gordon, thickly. "That's right; but you can't throw him down hard enough to keep him down."
"I don't know about that," declared Roll, with drunken sobriety. "If we were to work together, Gordon, old man, we could hurt him. As it is, you've helped me out wonderfully in what I've done."
"Have I? How?"
Harry looked around and saw Merriwell preparing to go into the corner behind the screen. Then Rattleton made a few violent gestures, which plainly told his roommate to refrain.
Frank looked astonished. What could Harry be up to that he appeared so excited? He was motioning for Frank to come forward cautiously and join him.
Now, Merriwell did not believe in playing the eavesdropper on any one, but he fancied Harry saw something he wished to show him, so he went forward lightly, placed another chair, got upon it, and looked over the screen.
In the meantime Ditson was saying:
"Yes, you've helped me. You know Merriwell is coaching the freshman crew—or has been—for the race to-morrow. Well, I don't let any chance go to get a jab at him."
"I don't see what that has to do with my helping you," mumbled Gordon, vainly trying to light a cigarette with a broken match on which no brimstone was left.
"Course yer don't," laughed Ditson, who was almost as full as his companion. "This isn't the first time we have been out together, eh, old boy?"
"No."
"Only we had to be quiet about it when you were on the crew—or when you thought you were on it."
"That's right."
"We have been pretty full once or twice."
"I thought so when we got up the next morning."
"Well, you have told me lots of things about Merriwell and what he was doing with the crew. You're a great talker when you're loaded."
Gordon stiffened up a bit and tried to give his companion a sober stare, but the effort was a ludicrous failure.
"Wazzyer mean?" he asked. "'Fi told you anything it was in strictest confidence."
"Cert; but then, you know, anything to knife Merriwell."
Gordon braced off, his hands on the table before him. Ditson laughed and went on:
"Now, if we make a combine against him we can do him bad."
"Wazzyer mean?" Gordon again demanded. "Mean that you repeated anything I tol' you in confidence when I was full?"
"Not publicly," grinned Ditson. "I may have used it to injure Merriwell, but I was careful how I used it."
Walter thumped the table with his fist, growing angry suddenly.
"You're a hanged two-faced fraud!" he huskily cried. "That's jusht what you are, Ditson! Somebody's been telling things to the sophs. They found out everything. It was you! And you pumped your points out of me when I was full."
"That didn't hurt you," Ditson hastened to declare. "It was entirely to hurt Merriwell, and he is our common enemy."
"Don't care a continental if he is!" cried Walter. "I don't like him, but you have hurt me. Bet anything Merriwell and Old Put thought I had blowed! I didn't have any confidence in Merriwell's methods, but I didn't blow to the sophs! Still I was to blame for lettin' you get me full and pump me. And the fellows think I'm a tattler! Well, I'll be hanged if I don't even up with you by hammering the face off you right now!"
Walter stood up and attempted to grasp Ditson's arm, but he was so full that he made a miscalculation and caught nothing but empty air. Then he struck across the table at Roll.
"Oh, you would hit me, would you!" grated Ditson, who saw that his companion was much the drunker. "You would hammer my face! Well, perhaps I'll do some hammering myself!"
Then he caught up an empty champagne bottle and swung it over his head as if to strike Gordon.
Like a flash Merriwell's hand darted down over the top of the screen and snatched the bottle from Roll's grasp.
A moment later Frank went around the screen and confronted the two lads, still holding the bottle in his hand.
"I saved you from having a cracked head that time, Gordon," he said as he collared Ditson. "And I have found out who the traitor is. I am glad you are not the man. As for this thing"—he gave Ditson a shake that caused the fellow's teeth to click together—"he has shown to-night that he is a most contemptible cur! I hated to think him as dirty as he has shown himself to be."
Frank's face was full of unutterable disgust for Ditson.
Other freshmen came crowding into the corner, and Ditson saw himself regarded with scorn and contempt by everybody. He cowed like a whipped cur and whined:
"I was simply fooling; it was all a jolly. I never did anything of the sort. I was simply trying to get Gordon on the string by telling him so."
"Well, you got yourself on a string, and pretty well tangled up. Gentlemen"—turning to the freshmen present—"here is the traitor who has been giving our secrets away to the sophs. Both Rattleton and myself heard him acknowledge it. Take a good look at him, so you will know him in the future."
"Oh, we'll know him!" cried many voices.
"It's a mistake—" Roll began.
"That's right," agreed Frank. "The worst mistake you ever made. At last you have shown just what you are, and everybody is dead onto you. Get out of this!"
"Tar and feather him!" shouted a voice.
"Let him go," advised Merriwell. "He is covered with a coating of disgrace that will not come off as easily as tar and feathers."
Ditson sneaked away, the hisses of his classmates sounding in his ears. The look on his face as he rolled his eyes toward Merriwell before leaving the room was malicious in the extreme.
Frank turned to Walter, who did not seem to know what to do.
"Gordon, you have found that fellow out, which is a lucky thing for you," he said. "He would have ruined you. At the same time, I have found out that you had no hand in the sneaking work that has been going on of late. You were simply an unconscious and unwilling tool, and it did me good to see you resent it when you found out what Ditson had been doing."
Walter tried to say something, but he choked and stammered. Then he muttered something about having a drink all around, but Frank assured him that he had taken quite enough.
Rattleton and Robinson led the crowd away from the corner, and Merriwell had a brief talk with Gordon, Then Harry and Frank took Gordon out and did not leave him till he was safely in his room. As they were going away Walter thickly said:
"Merriwell!"
"What is it?"
"I want to 'pologize."
"What for?"
"Things I've said 'bout you."
"I don't know about them."
"'Cause I've said 'em behind your back. Sneakin' thing to do! Merriwell, I'm 'shamed—I am, by thunder! I guess you're all right. Don't b'lieve you ever done me dirt. Is it all right, old man?"
"Yes, it's all right."
"Say, that makes me feel better. It does, by thunder! You're a good fellow, Merriwell, and I'm—I'm a fool! I talk too much! Drink too much, too. You don't talk and you don't drink. You're all right. Good-night, Merriwell."
"Good-night, Gordon."
When Frank retired the second time that night it was with a feeling of intense relief, for the perplexing problem as to the identity of the traitor had been settled, and he felt that he had done Gordon a good turn by getting him away from Ditson.
And Ditson? Well, he deserved to pass a wretched night, and he did. He felt that he was forever disgraced at Yale, but he did not seem to consider it his own fault. He blamed Merriwell for it all, and his heart was hot with almost murderous rage. Over and over he swore that he would get square some way—any way.
The day for the race came at last—a sunny day, with the air clear and cold. Just the right sort of a day for the best of work.
Everybody seemed bound for Lake Saltonstall. They were going out in carriages, hacks, coaches, on foot, by train, and in many other ways. The road to the lake was lined with people. The students were shouting, singing and blowing horns. One crowd of freshmen had a big banner, on which was lettered:
"'Umpty-eight, she is great,She will win sure as fate."
Evidently the sophomores had been informed about this banner in advance, for they carried one which declared:
"'Umpty-eight isn't in it,She'll be beaten in a minute."
How they shouted and taunted each other! How they raced along the road! How sure everybody was that he could pick the winner!
The scene at the lake was beautiful and inspiring, for the shore was lined with people and there were flags and bright colors everywhere. On the point there was a great mob, composed mostly of students, who were yelling and cheering and flaunting their flags. The boats on the lake were well filled and gay with colors. New Haven swell society was fairly represented, and it certainly was an occasion to stir youthful blood.
The freshman-sophomore-junior race came fourth on the list, and it was to be the event of the day. Strangely enough, the juniors were not reckoned as dangerous by either freshmen or sophomores. Between the last two classes was to come the real tug of war.
In the boathouse the great Bob Collingwood, of the 'Varsity crew, gave the freshmen some advice, and they listened to him with positive awe. He had heard of Merriwell's attempt to introduce the English stroke, and he did not approve of it.
After he had got through Merriwell took his men aside into another part of the boathouse and warned them against thinking of anything Collingwood had said.
"He is all right when he is talking to men who use his style of oar and the regular American stroke, but you will be broke up sure as fate if you think of what he has said that disagrees with my instructions. It is too late now to make any change, and we must win or lose as we have practiced."
"That's right," agreed every man.
"We'll win," said Rattleton, resolutely.
They could hear the cheering as the other races took place, and at last it came their turn. How their hearts thumped! And it was Merriwell that quieted their unsteady nerves with a few low, calm words, which seemed to give them the bracer which they needed before going into the race.
'Umpty-eight yelled like a whole tribe of Indians, wildly waving flags, hats and handkerchiefs, as the freshman boat shot out upon the lake, with Merriwell at the stroke. They did not row in the buff, as the weather was too cold, but all wore thin white shirts, with "'Umpty-eight" lettered in blue on the breast.
Old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns. There were a few expressions of approval. The novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff.
Then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their classes. The juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by Collingwood.
Soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard:
"Are you ready?"
Dead silence.
"Go!"
Away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order. The juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be "overdone," as a jubilant sophomore spectator characterized it.
The sophs along the shore and on the point were wild with delight. They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the sophomores. The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound.
"Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-seven!" howled the sophs. "Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! This is a cinch!"
"'Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute," sang the freshmen. "She is crawling on them!"
"All she can do is crawl!" yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise.
"'Umpty-six is up to tricks!" shouted the juniors. "'Umpty-six, they are bricks! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!"
The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own—was beginning to gain.
"That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall," declared a spectator. "Every man seems to be a worker. There's no one shirking."
"And look at the stroke oar," urged another. "That fellow is the winner! He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over."
This was true enough. The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. At the stake the freshman crew passed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits.
But that was not the end of the excitement. The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead.
And now the shouting for 'Umpty-eight was heard on every side. The sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining.
The nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look. The suspense was awful, the excitement was intense:
Then Rattleton was heard talking:
"Well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck! I wonder how the sophs like the Oxford stroke? Oh, my! what guys we are making of them! It don't make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they're not in the race at all. Poor sophs! Why don't they get out and walk? They could get along faster."
That seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead. They soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance.
Then Rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy.
How the freshmen spectators did cheer!
"'Umpty-eight! 'Umpty-eight! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah!' rah!"
It was another great victory for the freshmen—and Frank Merriwell, and that night a great bonfire blazed on the campus and the students made merry. They blew horns, sang, cheered and had a high old time.
The freshmen made the most noise, and they were very proud and aggressive. Never had Yale College freshmen seemed happier.
"Where is Merriwell?" was the question that went around.
A committee was sent to search for him, and they returned with him on their shoulders. He tried to get down, but he could not.
Uncle Blossom climbed on a box and shouted:
"Three cheers for 'Umpty-eight, the winners!"
The cheers were given.
Easy Street leaped on another box and yelled:
"Three cheers for Frank Merriwell, the winning oar!"
It seemed that the freshmen were trying to split their throats. And not a few juniors joined with them, showing how much admiration Merriwell had won outside his own class.
Walter Gordon cheered with the others, but Roland Ditson stood at a distance, beating his heart out with rage and jealousy. He was all alone, for at Yale not one man was left who cared to acknowledge Ditson as a friend.
"The game is lost!"
"Sure."
"Yale has not scored since the second inning."
"That's right. She made one in the first and three in the second, and then comes four beautiful whitewashes. Harvard hasn't missed a trick, and the score is eleven to four in her favor."
"Lewis, this is awful!"
"Right you are, Jones. Hear those Harvard rooters whoop up! It gives me nervous prostration."
The Yale freshmen were playing the Harvard freshmen on the grounds of the latter team, and quite a large delegation had come on from New Haven to witness the game, which was the second of the series of three arranged between the freshmen teams of the two colleges. The first had been played at New Haven, and the third was to be played on neutral ground.
Yale had won the first game by heavy batting, the final score being twelve to eleven. As the regular 'Varsity nine had likewise won the first of their series with Harvard, the "Sons of Eli" began to think they had a sure thing, and those who came on from New Haven were dead sure in their minds that they would bring back the scalps of the Harvard freshmen. They said over and over that there would be no need of a third game to settle the matter; Yale would settle it in the second.
Walter Gordon had pitched the whole of the first Harvard game. He had been hammered for thirteen singles, two two-baggers, and a three-bagger, and still Yale had pulled out, which was rather remarkable. But Walter had managed to keep Harvard's hits scattered, while Yale bunched their hits in two innings, which was just enough to give them the winning score.
It was said that Frank Merriwell was to be given a show in the second game, and a large number of Yale men who were not freshmen had come on to see what he would do. Pierson had been particularly anxious to see Merriwell work, and he had taken a great deal of trouble to come on. The "great and only" Bob Collingwood, of the 'Varsity crew, had accompanied Pierson, and both were much disappointed, not to say disgusted, when Old Put put in Gordon and kept him in the box, despite the fact that he was being freely batted.
"What's the matter with Putnam?" growled Pierson. "Has he got a grudge against Merriwell, or does he intend to lose this game anyway?"
"He's asleep," said Collingwood, wearily. "He's stuck on Gordon."
"He must be thick if he can't see Gordon is rapidly losing his nerve. Why, the fellow is liable to go to pieces at any minute and let those Willies run in a score that will be an absolute disgrace."
"Go down and talk to him, Pierson."
"Not much! I am too well known to the Harvard gang. They wouldn't do a thing to me—not a thing!"
"Then let's get out of here. It makes me sick to hear that Harvard yell. I can't stand it, Pierson."
"Wait. I want to see Merriwell go into the box, if they will let him at all. That's what I came for."
"But he can't save the game now. The Yale crowd is not doing any batting. All Harvard has to do is to hold them down, and they scarcely have touched Coulter since the second inning."
"That's right, but the fellow is easy, Coll. If they ever should get onto him—"
"How can they? They are not batters."
Pierson nodded.
"That is true," he admitted. "They are weak with the stick. Diamond is the only man who seems to know how to go after a ball properly. He is raw, but there is mighty good stuff in that fellow. If he sticks to baseball he will be on the regular team before he finishes his course."
"I believe Merriwell has shown up well as a batter in practice."
"He certainly has."
"Well, I should think Old Put would use him for his hitting, if for nothing else. He is needed."
"It seems to me that there is a nigger in the woodpile."
"You think Merriwell is held back for reasons not known?"
"I do."
"Say, by jingoes! I am going down and talk to Putnam. If he doesn't give Merriwell a trial he's a chump."
"Hold on."
"What for? If I wait it will be too late for Merriwell to go in on the first of the seventh."
"Perhaps Merriwell may stand on his dignity and refuse to go in at all at this late stage of the game."
"He wouldn't be to blame if he did, for he can't win out."
"Something is up. Hello! Merriwell is getting out of his sweater! I believe Putnam is going to send him out!"
There was a great satisfaction in Pierson's voice. At last it seemed that he would get a chance to see Merriwell work.
"Somebody ought to go down and rap Putnam on the coco with a big heavy club!" growled Collingwood. "He should have made the change long ago. The Harvard Willies have been piling up something every inning."
Down on the visitors' bench Merriwell was seen to peel off, while Gordon was talking rather excitedly to Burnham Putnam. It seemed evident by his manner that he was speaking of something that did not please him very much.
Merriwell was pulled out of his sweater, and then somebody tossed him a practice ball. Little Danny Griswold, the Yale shortstop, put on a catcher's mitt and prepared to catch for Frank.
Yale was making a last desperate struggle for a score in the sixth inning. With one man out and a man on first, a weak batter came up. If the batter tried to get a hit, it looked like a great opportunity for a double play by Harvard.
Old Put, who was in uniform, ran down to first, and sent in the coacher, whose place he took on the line. Then he signaled the batter to take one, his signal being obeyed, and it proved to be a ball.
Put was a great coacher, and now he opened up in a lively way, with Robinson rattling away over by third. Put was not talking simply to rattle the pitcher; he was giving signals at the same time, and he signed for the man on first to go down on the next pitch, at the same time giving the batter the tip to make a fake swing at the ball to bother the catcher.
This programme was carried out, and it worked, for the runner got second on a slide and a close decision.
Then the Yale rooters opened their throats, and blue banners fluttered in a bunch over on the bleachers where the New Haven gang was packed together.
"Yell, you suckers, yell!" cried Dickson, Harvard's first baseman. "It's the only chance you'll get."
His words were drowned in the tumult and noise.
Up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators who sympathized with the boys from New Haven.
Then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the heads of the Yale freshmen so long.
But the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close in again as dark as ever.
In the meantime Frank was warming up with the aid of Danny Griswold, and Walter Gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast.
"Gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a companion. "He doesn't know when he has enough."
"Well, we know we have had enough of him this game," said the other, sourly. "If we had played a rotten fielding game Harvard would have a hundred now."
"Well, nearly that," grinned the first speaker. "Gordon hasn't struck out a man."
"And still he is sore because Putnam is going to put Merriwell in! I suppose that is natural, but—Hi, there! look a' that! Great Scott! what sloppy work! Did you see Newton get caught playing off second? Well, that gives me cramps! Come on; he's the last man, and we'll have to go out."
So, to the delight of the Harvard crowd, Yale was whitewashed again, and there seemed no show for the New Haven boys to win.
Walter Gordon remained on the bench, and Frank walked down into the box. Then came positive proof of Merriwell's popularity, for the New Haven spectators arose as one man, wildly waving hats and flags, and gave three cheers and a tiger for Frank.
"That's what kills him!" exclaimed Pierson in disgust. "It is sure to rattle any green man."
"That's right," yawned Collingwood. "It's plain we have wasted our time in coming here to-day."
"It looks that way from the road. Why couldn't the blamed chumps keep still, so he could show what he is made of?"
"It's ten to one he won't be able to find the plate for five minutes. I believe I can see him shaking from here."
The Harvard crowd had never heard of Merriwell, and they regarded him with no little interest as he walked into the box. When the Yale spectators were through cheering Harvard took it up in a derisive way, and it certainly was enough to rattle any fellow with ordinary nerves.
But Frank did not seem to hear all the howling. He paid no attention to the cheers of his friends or the jeers of the other party. He seemed in no great hurry. He made sure that every man was in position, felt of the pitcher's plate with his foot, kicked aside a small pebble, and then took any amount of time in preparing to deliver.
Collingwood began to show some interest. He punched Pierson in the ribs with his elbow and observed:
"Hanged if he acts as if he is badly rattled!"
"That's so. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry," admitted Paul. "He is using his head at the very start, for he is giving himself time to become cool and steady."
"He has Gibson, the best batter on the Harvard team, facing him. Gibson is bound to get a safe hit."
"He is pretty sure to, and that is right."
Merriwell knew that Nort Gibson was the heaviest and surest batter on the Harvard team, but he had been watching the fellow all through the game, trying to "get his alley." He had seen Gibson light on a drop and smash it fiercely, and then he had seen him get a safe hit off a rise, while an outcurve did not fool him at all, as he would bang it if it came over the plate or let it alone when it went outside.
Frank's mind was made up, and he had resolved to give Gibson everything in close to his fingers. Then, if he did hit it, he was not liable to knock it very far.
The first ball Merriwell delivered looked like a pretty one, and Gibson went after it. It was an inshoot, and the batter afterward declared it grazed his knuckles as it passed.
"One strike!" called the umpire.
"What's this! what's this!" exclaimed Collingwood, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What did he do, anyway?"
"Fooled the batter with a high inshoot," replied Pierson.
"Well, he doesn't seem to be so very rattled after all."
"Can't tell yet. He did all right that time, but Gibson has two more chances. If he gets a drop or an outcurve that is within reach, he will kill it."
Ben Halliday was catching for Yale. Rattleton, the change catcher and first baseman, was laid off with a bad finger. He was rooting with the New Haven gang.
Halliday returned the ball and signaled for a rise, but Merriwell shook his head and took a position that meant that he wished to try the same thing over again. Halliday accepted, and then Frank sent the ball like a shot.
This time it seemed a certain thing that Frank had depended on a high straight ball, and Gibson could not let it pass. He came near breaking his back trying to start the cover on the ball, but once more he fanned the air.
"Great Jupiter!" gasped Collingwood, who was now aroused. "What did he do then, Pierson?"
"Fooled the fellow on the same thing exactly!" chuckled Paul. "Gibson wasn't looking for two in the same place."
Now the freshmen spectators from Yale let themselves out. They couldn't wait for the third strike, but they cheered, blew horns and whistles, and waved flags and hats.
Merriwell had a trick of taking up lots of time in a busy way without pitching the ball while the excitement was too high, and his appearance seemed to indicate that he was totally deaf to all the tumult.
"That's right, Merry, old boy!" yelled an enthusiastic New Haven lad. "Trim his whiskers with them."
"Wind them around his neck, Frank!" cried Harry Rattleton. "You can do it!"
Rattleton had the utmost confidence in his chum, and he had offered to bet that not one of the first three men up would get a safe hit off him. Sport Harris, who was always looking for a chance to risk something, promptly took Harry up, and each placed a "sawbuck" in the hands of Deacon Dunning.
"I am sorry for you, Harris," laughed Rattleton after Gibson had missed the second time, "but he's going to use them all that way."
"Wait, my boy," returned Sport, coolly. "I am inclined to think this man will get a hit yet."
"I'll go you ten to five he doesn't."
"Done!"
They had no time to put up the money, for Merriwell was at work again, and they were eager to watch him.
The very next ball was an outcurve, but it was beyond Gibson's reach and he calmly let it pass. Then followed a straight one that was on the level with the top of the batter's head, and Gibson afterward expressed regret that he did not try it. The third one was low and close to Gibson's knees.
Three balls had been called in succession, and the next one settled the matter, for it stood three to two.
"Has he gone to pieces?" anxiously asked Collingwood.
"I don't think so," answered Pierson, "but he has wasted good opportunities trying to pull Gibson. He is in a bad place now."
"You have him in a hole, Gibson," cried a voice. "The next one must be right over, and he can't put it there."
"It looks as if you would win, Rattleton," said Harris in mild disgust. "Merriwell is going to give the batter his base, and so, of course, he will not get a hit."
Harry was nettled, and quick as a flash returned:
"Four balls hits for a go—I mean goes for a hit in this case."
Harris laughed.
"Now I have you sure," he chuckled.
"In your mind, Sport, old boy."
Merriwell seemed to be examining the pitcher's plate, then he looked up like a flash, his eyes seeming to sparkle, and with wonderful quickness delivered the ball.
"It's an outcurve," was the thought which flashed through Gibson's mind as he saw the sphere had been started almost directly at him.
If it was an outcurve it seemed certain to pass over the center of the plate, and it would not do to let it pass. It was speedy, and the batter was forced to make up his mind in a fraction of a second.
He struck at it—and missed!
"Three strikes—batter out!" called the umpire, sharply.
Gibson dropped his stick in a dazed way, muttering:
"Great Scott! it was a straight ball and close to my fingers!"
He might have shouted the words and not been heard, for the Yale rooters were getting in their work for fair. They gave one great roar of delight, and then came the college yell, followed by the freshman cheer. At last they were given an opportunity to use their lungs, after having been comparatively silent for several innings.
"Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-eight!" howled a fellow with a heavy voice. "What's the matter with 'Umpty-eight?"
"She's all right!" went up the hoarse roar.
"What's the matter with Merriwell?"
"He's all right!" again came that roar.
When the shouting had subsided, Rattleton touched Harris on the shoulder and laughingly asked:
"Do I win?"
"Not yet. There are two more coming."
"But I win just as hard, my boy."
"Hope you do."
The next Harvard batter came up, determined to do something, although he was a trifle uncertain. He let the first one pass and heard a strike called, which did not please him much. The second one was a coaxer, and he let that ball go by. The umpire called a ball. The third was a high one, but it looked good, and he tried for it. It proved to be a rise, and he struck under it at least a foot.
Bob Collingwood was growing enthusiastic.
"That Merriwell is full of tricks," he declared. "Think how he secretly coached the freshman crew up on the Oxford stroke last fall and won the race at Saltonstall. If it hadn't been for a traitor nobody would have known what he was doing with the crew, for he wouldn't let them practice at the machines."
"I have had my eye on him ever since he entered Yale," confessed Pierson. "I have seen that he is destined to come to the front."
The batter seemed angry because he had been deceived so easily, and this gave Frank satisfaction, for an angry man can be deceived much easier than one who keeps cool.
Merriwell held them close in on the batter, who made four fouls in succession, getting angrier each moment. By this time an outdrop was the thing to fool him, and it worked nicely.
"Three strikes and out!" called the umpire.
Frank had struck out two men, and the Yale crowd could not cheer loud enough to express their delight.
Old Put was delighted beyond measure, but he was keeping pretty still, for he knew what he was sure to hear if Yale did not pull the game out some way. He knew everybody would be asking him why he did not put Merriwell in the box before.
Lewis Little was hugging himself with satisfaction, while Dismal Jones' long face actually wore something suggestive of a smile.
Rattleton felt like standing on his head and kicking up his heels with the delight he could not express.
"Oh, perhaps they will give Frank a show after this!" he thought. "Didn't I tell Put, the blooming idiot? It took him a long time to get out of his trance."
Sport Harris coolly puffed away at a black cigar, seemingly perfectly unconcerned, like a born gambler. He had black hair and a faint line of a mustache. He was rather handsome in a way, but he had a pronounced taste for loud neckties.
The next batter to come up was nervous, as could be seen at a glance. He did not wish to strike out, but he was far too eager to hit the ball, and he went after a bad one at the very start, which led him to get a mild call down from the bench.
Then the fellow let a good one pass, which rattled him worse than ever. The next looked good and he swung at it.
He hit it, and it went up into the air, dropping into Merriwell's hands, who did not have to step out of his tracks to get it.
Yale had whitewashed Harvard for the first time in that game.
By the noise the Yale crowd made one might have fancied the game was theirs beyond a doubt.
"Poor fellows!" said one languid Harvardite to an equally languid companion. "It's the only chawnce they have had to cheer. Do let them make a little noise."
"Yas," said his companion, "do. It isn't at all likely they will get another opportunity during this game."
There were cheers for Merriwell, but Frank walked to the bench and put on his sweater as if utterly unconscious of the excitement he had created. His unconcerned manner won fresh admiration for him.
Old Put congratulated Frank as soon as the bench was reached.
"That was great work, Merriwell. Keep it up! Keep it up!"
"That kind of work will not win the game as the score stands," returned Frank. "Some batting must be done, and there must be some score getting."
"You are right, and you are the second man up this inning. See what you can do."
"If I had known I came so soon I wouldn't have put on my sweater."
"Keep it on. You must not get chilly. We can't tell what may happen. Harder games than this have been pulled out. They lead us but five scores."
"Blossom bats ahead of me, does he? Well, he never got a hit when one was wanted in all his life; but he's got a trick that is just as good, if he will try to work it."
"Getting hit by the ball? He is clever at that. Tell him to work the dodge this time if he can. Get him onto first some way. We must have some scores, if we steal them."
"I wish we might steal a few."
"If I get first and Blossom is ahead of me on second, let us try the double steal. I may be caught at second or he may be caught at third, and there is a bare possibility that we'll both make our bags. At any rate, but one of us is liable to be caught, and if it is Blossom it will leave us scarcely any worse off than before. If it is myself, why, Blossom will be on third, we'll have one man out, and stand a good show of scoring once at least."
Merriwell said this in a quiet manner, not at all as if he were trying to dictate, and Putnam made no reply. However, he spoke to Blossom, who was picking out his bat.
"Look here, Uncle," he said, "I want you to get first base in some way. Do you understand?—in some way. If you can't make a hit or get it on balls, get hit."
Blossom made a wry face.
"Coulter's got speed to burn," he said, "but I'll try to get hit if he gives me an in, even though it kills me."
"That's what I want," returned Old Put, grimly. "Never mind if it does kill you. We are after scores, and a life or two is of small consequence."
"That's a pleasant way of looking at it," muttered Blossom as he advanced to the plate. "Here goes nothing!"
The very first ball was an inshoot, and Blossom pretended to dodge and slip. The ball took him in the side and keeled him over instantly. He was given a little water, whereupon he got up and trotted down to first, his hand clinging to his side, but grinning a bit in a sly way.
There was a brief discussion about giving Blossom a runner, but when one was chosen who could not run as well as he could himself, he suddenly found himself in condition to get along all right.
Merriwell took his place at the bat, having selected a bat that was a trifle over regulation length, if anything.
Frank saw a hole in right field, and he hoped to be able to place a hit right there. If he could do it, there was a chance for Blossom to get around to third on a single.
Coulter knew nothing of Merriwell's batting, so he was forced to experiment on the man. He tried a drop that almost hit the plate, but Frank did not bite. Then Coulter sent over a high one, and still Merriwell refused to swing, and two balls had been called.
Coulter had a trick of holding a man close on first, and so Blossom had not obtained lead enough to attempt to steal second.
Frank felt that Coulter would make an attempt to get the next one over the outside or inside corner of the plate, as it would not do to have three balls in succession called without a single strike.
Merriwell was right. Coulter sent one over the inside corner, using a straight ball. Still Merriwell did not offer at it, for he could not have placed it in the right field if he had tried.
"One strike!" called the umpire.
Although he seemed quite unconcerned, Sport Harris had been nettled when Rattleton won the ten-dollar bet, and he now said:
"I will go you even money, Rattleton, that Merriwell does not get a hit. If he goes down on four balls the bet is off."
"I'll stand you," nodded Harry, laughingly. "Why, Harris, I never dreamed you were such an easy mark! Merriwell is bound to get a hit."
"Ha! ha!" mocked Harris. "Is that so? And he just let a good one pass without wiggling his bat!"
"It wasn't where he wanted it."
"And Coulter will not give him one where he wants it."
"Coulter doesn't know anything about Merriwell's batting, and so he is liable to make a break at any moment."
This proved right, for Coulter tried to fool Frank with an outcurve on the next delivery. He started the ball exactly as he had the one before it, to all appearances as if he meant to send another straight one over the inside corner. He believed Merriwell would bite at it, and he was right.
But right there Coulter received a shock, for Merriwell leaned forward as he swung, assuming such a position that the ball must have hit him if it had been a straight one. It had a sharp, wide curve, and passed at least ten inches beyond the plate.
Passed? Not much! Merriwell hit it, and sent a "daisy cutter" down into right field, exactly where he wished to place it.
Down on the coach line near first little Danny Griswold had convulsions. He whooped like a wild Indian.
"Spring, ye snails! Tear up the dust, ye sons of Eli! Two—make it two, Blos, old boy! Why, this game is easy now! We've just got started! Whoop! Whoopee!"
In going over second Blossom tripped and fell heavily. When he scrambled to his feet he was somewhat dazed, and it was too late for him to try for third. He saw Halliday down by third motioning wildly for him to get back and hold second, but there was such a roar of voices that he could not hear a word the coachers were saying. However, the signals were enough, and he got back.
Now the "Sons of Eli" were all on their feet, and they were making the air quiver. It was enough to inspire any man to do or die, and it is doubtful if there was not a man on the Yale team who did not feel at that moment that he was willing to lay down his life, if necessary, to win that game.
When the shouting had subsided in a measure, Rattleton was heard to shout from his perch on the shoulders of a companion, to which position he had shinned in his excitement:
"Right here is where we trick our little do, gentlemen—er—I mean we do our little trick. Ready to the air of 'Oh, Give Us a Drink, Bartender.' Let her go!"
Then the Yale crowd broke into an original song, the words of which were: