Following was the batting order when the Merries again faced the Elks:
MERRIES.     ELKS.
Ready, 3d b.     Kitson, rf.
Morgan, ss.     Cronin, 3d b.
Badger, lf.     Sparks, cf.
Merriwell, p.     Rush, ss.
Hodge, c.     Glade, rf.
Gamp, cf.     Tinker, 2d b.
Browning, 1st b.     Cross, 1st b.
Rattleton, 2d b.     Sprowl, c.
Dunnerwurst, rf.     Wolfers, p.

The Elks fancied they would have an easy thing with Wolfers in the box. Still they were anxious to get a safe lead early in the game, and Lawrence urged them to “jump on” Merriwell without delay.

Of course the Merries were sent to bat first, as this gave the locals their last opportunity.

Wolfers was chewing gum and grinning when he went into the box. He looked more than ever like a wolf, yet he seemed to be very good-natured. The crowd cheered him and he touched his cap in acknowledgment.

“Good old Bobby!” howled the same big man who had made himself heard so often at the game with the Cuban Giants. “You’re the boy! This will be a picnic for you.”

The usual gathering of small boys was to be seen. Spud Bailey was on hand, and he seemed to be an object of much ridicule.

“Oh, you know er lot erbout baseball!” sneered Freckles, while all the others laughed. “Mebbe you’ve got it inter dat nut of yourn that them Merriwell fellers will win dis game?”

“I has,” acknowledged Spud defiantly.

They jeered him.

“You don’t know ernough ter come in w’en it rains,” said Freckles.

“You’ll know more arter ther game. Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter pitch ther whole of this one.”

“Dey’ll pound him outer der box inside of t’ree innin’s.”

“I know a man dat’s bet two hundrud dollars ter one hundred dat the Merriwells will win.”

“He’s a bigger fool dan you are! W’y didn’t he go burn his money. He’d had more fun wid it.”

But Spud was unmoved.

“You wait,” he muttered. “You’ll see.”

Never in their careers had the members of Merriwell’s team been more determined to win, if possible. All levity was cut out of the early part of the game. They went at it seriously, earnestly, with heart and soul.

Ready cast aside his flippancy and did his level best to start things off with a hit. The best he could do was to drive a grounder into the hands of Cronin, who whistled it across to Cross for an easy out.

Wolfers continued to grin, although he had anticipated, beginning by showing his ability to strike a man out when he desired.

Morgan fouled several times, finally striking out on a “spit ball,” which took a wonderfully sharp jump to one side as he swung, nearly getting away from Sprowl.

“That’s the kind, Bob, old socks!” cried the catcher. “They never can hit those.”

Badger popped a little one into the air, and the first three batters to face the wonder from Wisconsin were his victims.

“Now get right after Merriwell, boys,” urged Lawrence, as his players reached the bench. “Clinch the game at the start, and then take it easy. Put us into it, Kit.”

Merriwell did not limp as he walked out. His ankle was tightly supported with a broad leather band. In warming up he had found that his control was perfect. He could put the ball exactly where he pleased, and he felt that on this day he would be in his best form. He also felt that he would need all his skill.

Kitson laughed.

“Just put one over and see me bump it,” he urged.

Frank looked round to make sure every man was in position.

“We’re all behind you, Merry,” assured Rattleton. “Let him mump it a bile—I mean bump it a mile!”

The first ball pitched looked good to Kitson. It was speedy and quite high.

Just as the batter slashed at it the ball took a sharp rise, or jump, and the bat encountered nothing but empty air.

“Stir-r-r-rike—kah one!” came from the umpire.

Spud Bailey seized the first opportunity to rejoice.

“Why didn’t he hit dat?” he cried.

“Oh, wait, wait!” advised Freckles. “Dere’s plenty of time. He’ll hit der next one he goes after.”

But Freckles was mistaken. The next ball was a wide outdrop, which Kitson let pass. Then came a high ball that changed into a drop and shot down past the batter’s shoulders. He had anticipated a drop, and he tried to hit it, but did not judge it correctly.

“Stir-r-r-rike—kah two!”

Spud didn’t miss his chance to turn on Freckles.

“Shut up!” snapped Freckles. “He’s goin’ ter git a hit!”

Kitson thought so himself. He picked out another that looked good. It was an inshoot, and it spanked into Bart’s big mitt.

“You’re out!” came from the umpire.

Spud Bailey stood on his head, but Freckles viciously kicked him over.

Kitson shook his head as he walked to the bench.

“He fooled me,” he acknowledged. “Still I should have hit ’em.”

“Never mind,” said Cronin. “I’ll start something.”

Ben Raybold was sitting on the bleachers. He smiled the least bit as he saw Merry easily dispose of Kitson.

“He seems to be in his best form,” thought the backer of the visitors. “If so, I’ve won a hundred. I wish I’d made it more.”

The eyes of Bart Hodge were gleaming. He hammered a hole into his big mitt with his fist.

“drop ’em into that pocket, Merry, old boy,” he cried. “You know how to do it.”

“You bet my life he knows how!” cried Dunnerwurst.

“They’re all swelled up over striking you out, Kit,” said Rush.

“It won’t be so easy next time,” declared Kitson. “I’m onto his tricks.”

“Plenty of speed.”

“Oh, yes; but we like speed.”

“Sure. We eat speed. If he keeps burnin’ ’em over, we’ll fall on him pretty soon and pound him to the four winds.”

Merry remembered Cronin’s weakness. He kept the ball close to the fellow, and, having both control and speed, found it just as easy to strike him out.

“Well! well!” cried the big man with the stentorian voice. “What’s the matter, boys?”

“Get a hit, Sparksie,” urged Rush. “I think I can boost you along.”

“Let him give me some of those swift inshoots,” muttered Sparks.

This, however, Merry declined to do. He kept the ball away from Sparks, although starting it straight at him at least twice. His outcurve was wonderfully wide, and it quite bewildered the batter.

Wolfers had ceased to grin. He realized that Merriwell was “showing him up” in the first inning.

“Oh, well,” he muttered, “a strike-out pitcher isn’t the whole cheese.”

Still he was nettled.

Merry was testing himself. Kitson, Cronin, and Sparks were all batters of different styles. To mow them down in succession would be a severe test for any pitcher.

This, however, was what Frank did. Sparks finally succumbed, declining at the finish to strike at a high straight one, and growling because the umpire called it a strike, although it was not above his shoulder.

Spud Bailey was overjoyed.

“Now, now, now!” he cried. “I guess you fellers begin ter see I ain’t such a fool!”

“Oh, he can’t keep dat up,” sneered Freckles. “He’ll go all ter pieces arter one or two innin’s.”

“Bet you anyt’ing he won’t!” flung back Spud. “You ain’t posted about him. He’s der greates’ pitcher in der business. I tole yer so, but you didn’t take no stock in it.”

“I don’t take no stock in it now.”

“You will.”

“Git out!”

“You will,” persisted Spud.

The crowd had been surprised, but it was far from displeased. Having perfect confidence in Wolfers, it rejoiced because the game promised to be close and exciting.

“Frank, you have the goods!” said Hodge, as Merry came to the bench. “Why, I believe you could shoot the ball through a knot hole to-day!”

“My control is pretty good,” nodded Merry.

“Pretty good! It’s marvelous! Can you keep it up?”

“Somehow I think so. I have a feeling that I’ll be able to do just about what I like with the ball through this game.”

“Then the game is ours,” said Hodge.

Merriwell was the first batter in the second inning.

“Let’s see if I can’t give him a little of the medicine he’s been handing out,” Wolfers muttered to himself.

He tried his best to fool Merry, but Frank let the first pitch go for a ball and caught the second one fairly on his bat............