Cross hit to Frank, who tossed the ball to Browning for an easy out.

Then it was Sprowl’s turn.

As Bart crouched under the bat of the tricky catcher, he muttered:

“I want to give you a warning, Mr. Man.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“If you hit my bat with your mitt when I’m striking you’ll be sorry. I won’t stand for it.”

“Why, what will you do?”

“You’ll find out!”

Sprowl laughed sneeringly. Then he batted a grounder to Ready, who made a poor throw to Browning, and Sprowl reached first.

“Don’t talk to me!” he cried. “Don’t warn me! I always get a hit when somebody threatens me.”

“Dot hid dit not get you!” cried Dunnerwurst. “Id peen not a hit. Off Vrankie Merrivell you got yet no hits ad all, and maype you vill nod dood id efer so long as I live.”

“Why don’t you learn to talk United States?” cried Rush, who was coaching.

“He can talk better than he can play ball,” said Sprowl, in his nasty way.

Wolfers strode out with his bat.

“Got a hit off me, did you, Merriwell!” he thought. “Well, here is where I even up.”

Then Frank fooled him handsomely with a swift rise, a drop and a “dope ball.” Wolfers struck at them all. He fancied the dope was coming straight over, but the ball seemed to pause and hang in the air, as if something pulled it back. This caused the batter to strike too soon.

“Str-r-r-rike—kah three! You’re out!”

The man from Wisconsin turned crimson with anger and mortification.

“Oh, I presume you think you’re a great gun!” he snapped at Frank.

“Not at all,” retorted Merry. “It’s no trick to strike you out.”

This infuriated Wolfers.

“I don’t think it’s much of a trick to strike you out,” he flung back.

“It’s dead easy for a good pitcher to do it,” laughed Merriwell.

“Oh, you fresh duck!” muttered Wolfers, as he walked to the bench. “Just you wait! I’ll give you your medicine.”

His appearance of good nature had vanished like fog before a hot sun. He was now consumed with rage and a desire to outdo Frank in some manner.

“Lace ’em out, Kit!” implored Sprowl, as Kitson advanced to the plate. “He’s easy.”

Never in his life had Merry pitched with greater ease. He used curves, speed and a change of pace, having perfect control. Although he could handle the “spit ball,” he did not attempt to use it. He did not believe it necessary.

Kitson was anxious to hit. Merry seemed to give him pretty ones, but the ball took queer curves and shoots, and soon the right fielder of the Elks struck out.

The third inning was over, and neither side had scored. It was a battle royal between Wolfers and Merriwell.

Up to this point two clean hits, one a two-bagger, had been made off Wolfers.

Merriwell had not permitted a hit.

Morgan opened the fourth by smashing a hot one along the ground to Rush, who stopped it but chased it round his feet long enough for Dade to canter down to first.

“Here we go!” roared Browning.

“You won’t go very far!” sneered Wolfers.

Badger tried to sacrifice, but his bunt lifted a little pop fly to Wolfers, and he was out.

Then came Merriwell again.

“Don’t let this chap get another hit off you, Bob,” implored Cronin.

“No danger of it,” said the pitcher.

But on the second ball delivered Frank reached far over the outside corner of the plate and connected with the ball, cracking out a hot single that permitted Badger to speed round to third.

Merry took second on the throw to catch Badger at third.

The look on the face of Bob Wolfers was murderous. He stood and glared at Frank, who smiled sweetly in return.

“You’re the luckiest fellow alive!” said the Elkton twirler. “I saw you shut your eyes when you struck at that ball.”

“You’re so easy that I can hit your pitching with my eyes closed,” retorted Merriwell.

Imagine the feelings of Spud Bailey. He was strutting now in the midst of the village boys, not a whit intimidated by threats of a “walloping” after the game.

“I told you fellers how it would be before der game began,” he said, throwing out his chest, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “It couldn’t help bein’ dat way. Dey’re bangin’ der eye outer Wolfers, but I don’t see ’em hitting Frank Merriwell any.”

“Wot sorter feller are you ter go back on yer own town, hey?” savagely snarled Freckles. “We’ll all t’ump yo’ as soon as we git ye off der groun’s!”

“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!”

“You are!”

“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!” asserted Spud. “How many Elkton fellers is dere on dat team? They’ve dropped all our players an’ brung fellers in from ev’rywhere. If Frank Merriwell’s team was playin’ fer us, all you fellers would be yellin’ fer them.”

This sort of logic did not go with the other boys, nevertheless, and Spud was very unpopular.

Once again it was the turn of Bart Hodge to bat. He gave Sprowl a look as he came out.

Sprowl snickered.

“You scare me dreadfully,” he said.

“Keep your paws off my bat when I’m striking,” warned Bart.

Wolfers started with a drop.

Bart missed it.

He longed to get a clean, safe hit to right field, being satisfied that Merry would score on it if obtained, following Morgan in.

The suspense was great, for every one realized that a hit meant one run—possibly two.

Then Bart began to make fouls.

Once Sprowl touched his bat, but he fouled the ball. He felt that he must have made a safe hit only for that light deflection of the bat just as he swung.

“Did you see that, Mr. Umpire?” he cried.

The umpire had seen nothing.

Like Ready, Bart stepped onto the plate and turned to Sprowl.

“I want to tell you something,” he said, in a cold, hard tone. “This is it: If you touch my bat again I’ll turn round and punch your face for you! Is that plain enough?”

“I’d enjoy having you try it!” flung back Sprowl.

“You’re quite certain to have the enjoyment.”

“I haven’t touched your bat. You dreamed it.”

“You hear what I said and take heed.”

Then Hodge stepped off, but he was ready to hit, so that Wolfers could not catch him napping, as Ready had been caught.

Wolfers took plenty of time and sent one straight over the outside corner.

Sprowl again touched the bat with his mitt just as Bart started to strike. True to his threat, Hodge flung the bat aside and sailed into the tricky catcher............