Lenning was well started on the trail to Ophir when Merriwell overtook him.
“I’m mighty sorry,” was all Frank could say, as he dropped a hand on the other’s arm.
“You see how it is, Merriwell,” Lenning returned, in a tense voice, lifting his pale, drawn face for a quick look at his companion.
“Yes, I see how it is,” Frank acknowledged. “I had no right to put you in that position.”
“I should have had sense enough not to come. Don’t blame yourself any. And don’t find too much fault with Blunt and Handy. I mixed the dose for myself, and it’s no more than right that I should swallow it.”
During the walk back to town Frank did what he could to soothe Lenning’s injured feelings. Lenning listened quietly to his talk, and really seemed in a better frame of mind when he and Frank parted in front of the Ophir House.
While waiting for Clancy and Ballard to arrive, Frank had ample time for a little hard thinking on the veranda.
At first he had been tempted to throw up the proposed game with Gold Hill and have nothing further to do with it. He was beginning to see now that such a move on his part would be childish.
He had had ample warning not to try to drag Lenning into the baseball game. He had gone ahead in spite of the warning, and for the disaster of the afternoon he alone was to blame.
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When his reflections took stock of Blunt and Handy, he felt the hot blood beginning to pound in his veins. But this was childish, too. Lenning, not so very long before, had given everybody abundant excuse for thinking of him just what Blunt and Handy thought.
After all, Lenning was only paying the score he had run up. It was a debt he had to meet. When he was through with the battle, he would be all the better for a few scars to remind him of it.
This train of thought put Frank himself in a more tolerant mood by the time Clancy and Ballard got back to the hotel. They went in to supper together, and, by tacit agreement, dismissed the incident of the afternoon without any further discussion.
On the following morning there came a grind at the books under the eagle eye of Professor Borrodaile; then, after dinner and early in the afternoon, Frank and his chums went out to the baseball grounds and were greeted by the whole team, as originally selected by Frank, with the exception, of course, of Lenning and Shaw.
Mexican Joe was introduced to Frank by Brad. Joe was of about the same height and build as Jode Lenning, and, in addition, the two had a facial resemblance that was most remarkable. Naturally, the Mexican lad’s face was of a swarthier hue, and this of itself made the difference between them most pronounced.
While Benaway and Reckless pounded out flies and grounders for most of the team, Merry and Joe were off to one side warming to the work with jump balls, drops, and curves. Merry showed a skill and control that caused the Mexican backstop to open his eyes, and Joe, on his part, convinced Merry that he was all that Mr. Bradlaugh had cracked him up to be.
That Thursday afternoon’s work brought Frank entirely
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 under the spell of the game—the sport he loved best of all. For weeks he had not had the leather sphere in his hands, and now the very touch of it thrilled him through and through.
On first meeting Blunt and Handy, Thursday afternoon, Frank was conscious of a feeling toward them that was distinctly unfriendly; and they, on their part, had as little to say to Frank as possible. But when, at five o’clock, a grand rush was made for the bathrooms in the gym, the magic of baseball had wrought its work, and every member of the team was full of hope, and enthusiasm, and friendly consideration for the rest of his teammates. Merriwell, Blunt, and Handy met and mingled just as they had always done, and just as though the disagreeable incident of the preceding afternoon had never happened.
This is not to say that Frank had forgotten Lenning, for such was far from being the case. He was still sorry for the friendless chap, and still eager to do him a good turn. What is more, he believed more firmly than ever that many barriers between Lenning and his former friends might be leveled if Lenning could have a part in Saturday’s game. It was queer how that conviction persisted and intensified in Merriwell’s mind.
Friday afternoon the Ophir nine played a game with a scrub team. The second nine was poor, for Merriwell had gathered in all the good material, and the regular team had no difficulty in running up a good, big score.
More and more Frank was pleased with the excellent work of Mexican Joe. The backstop was about as talkative as a cigar-store Indian. He played silently, swiftly, surely, and his signals showed such an intelligent comprehension of the right balls that Frank’s admiration was aroused.
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“You’re a corker, Joe!” he declared, slapping the Mexican youth on the back when the afternoon’s work was over with.
A gratified smile crossed Joe’s swarthy face.
“You more of a corker as me,” he averred, and so eased himself of the only remark he had made during an hour and a half of hard work.
When Frank and his chums got back to the Ophir House, late that Friday afternoon, they were all tired, but happy and confident.
“We’ve got a fast nine,” declared Ballard, “and we’re going to put it all over that Gold Hill team. You hear me!”
“They’re a snappy lot, no two ways about that,” agreed Clancy. “I hate to give Darrel, Bleek, Hotchkiss, and the rest of that outfit the sort of a............