Frank was perfectly cool and composed, and never more thoroughly master of himself than when he stepped into the box. He knew that fate had played him up prominently while he had been in that part of the country, and that what fate had failed to do the florid imaginations of a good many people had been quick to accomplish.
Many of the spectators, no doubt, expected to find in young Merriwell a pitcher who was half a wizard and half a magician. Frank realized that onlookers of this class were due for a severe disappointment. He was glad of it, for he had no patience with the wild stories about him which had been flying over that section of the country.
Bleeker was the first man to toe the plate for the Gold Hillers. Clancy, from first, had to do all the ragging, for the backstop remained as silent as usual.
“Now for the first victim, Chip. This is Bleek. You know Bleek? Well, he’s going to look pretty bleak when you get through with him. Start the circus!”
“Don’t be hard on your old friends, Chip,” grinned Bleeker.
There was an air of jaunty confidence about Bleeker which suggested three-baggers and home runs. Frank believed that this was a good place to take a reef in Bleek’s aspirations.
He led off with a jump ball, and the speed behind it made the spectators jerk themselves together wonderingly.
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 The sphere spanked into the backstop’s mitt with a report like that of a rifle. Somewhere on its erratic course Bleek had taken a swat at the deceptive object.
“Strike!” shouted the umpire.
A chorus of jeers went up from around the diamond. Bleek, hardly realizing what had happened, stood looking foolishly at the end of his bat.
“Wake up, old man!” warned Darrel from the bench. “Mind your eye, and don’t reach for the wide ones.”
From the way Merry started the next ball it looked like it was going to be another lightning express, but when it crossed the plate it was jogging along like a slow freight. Bleek, expecting something speedy, smashed at the sphere before it was within a yard of him.
“Strike two!” barked the umpire.
A roar of laughter floated out over the field from the Ophirites in the grand stand and on the bleachers.
“What’s the use?” yelled some one. “He can’t see ’em!”
“Pound it on the nose the next time, Bleek!” begged a Gold Hiller.
“Kill it! Kill it!”
“Baste it out!”
Bleeker nerved himself for a supreme attempt, but in vain. Merry handed him an inshoot which found the hole in his bat, and he tramped to the benches with a flush of chagrin.
“Merry’s certainly all to the mustard,” he grunted, as he dropped down among his teammates. “He’s got some fancy capers that will fool the best of ’em. If Hotch connects with the ball it will be an accident.”
“Watch Merriwell, fellows,” urged Darrel. “See how he does it, then maybe you’ll be ready for him when you go in for your own stickwork.”
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Obedient to orders, the Gold Hill players studied Merry and tried to get “wise” to his curves. But, just as they thought they had discovered something, they saw something else that proved the supposed discovery wasn’t any discovery at all.
Hotchkiss, second baseman for the Gold Hillers, was the next man up. He was a left-handed batter, and Frank, who could pitch equally well with either hand, fell back on his left wing.
“Jumpin’ tarantulers!” boomed a cowboy. “Watch him, will ye? He’s usin’ his south paw!”
The first was a lightninglike bender, which coaxed a strike out of Hotch.
“That’s the way to start ’em, Chip!” cried Brad. “One, two, three—that’s the style.”
“Darn it, Chip,” cried Hotch, “why don’t you gi’ me a chance? Ain’t you a friend o’ mine?”
The catcher signaled for a wide one, but Hotch was making good use of his eyes, and allowed it to pass.
The third cut a corner of the plate. Hotch fouled it back of third base, and had the second strike called on him.
The next signal called for a drop. Frank started it pretty high, and Hotch grinned and shook his head. Then he looked dazed when the umpire called him out.
“Rotten!” grunted Hotch, throwing himself down beside Bleeker. “That last ball was over my shoulders.”
“You’re wrong, Hotch,” answered Bleek. “It was lower than that. Now, El,” he shouted, as the captain of the team went to bat, “lace it out. For the love of Mike, show Merriwell we’re alive.”
Darrel just managed to do that. He connected with the second one over, and Merry smothered it without leaving his tracks.
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The Ophirites began to whoop and howl. Their boys were making good, and they jubilated as only miners and cowboys can.
The first man to face Ellis Darrel for Ophir was the backstop. He stepped into the batter’s box with a smile, and cheerfully rapped out the first one over. A fellow named Dart, who played shortstop for the Gold Hillers, cuffed it down and snapped it to first. The ball beat the cat............