Colonel Hawtrey was flying around the Gold Hill section of the stand, now and then rising in his seat to cheer or to hand a little good-natured raillery to his friend, Mr. Bradlaugh.
“Thought you had some ball players over here, Bradlaugh,” he shouted, while runs were crossing the pan for Gold Hill.
“So did I,” laughed the general manager. “The game’s young yet, colonel. Wait till we’re a little farther along.”
“You fielders have got to take a brace,” Merry was saying to some of his teammates. “Clancy, I’m surprised at you! Brad, I wonder how your father enjoyed that play of yours? Now, then, all get together and do something.”
Brad, who was first at bat, tried hard to retrieve himself. Perhaps he tried too hard, for overanxiety is worse than not being anxious enough. Yet, be that as it may, his little pop-up was bagged neatly by Dart, and Brad turned from the path to first and made for the bench.
Then Blunt tried for a hit, but Darrel was pitching great ball, and nothing happened. Handy followed, and managed to get to first but Spink spoiled all his chances by getting a grounder to Rylman and being thrown out at first.
Bleeker was up again in the first half of the third. Frank had made up his mind, by then, that he and the backstop would have to do most of the work, and he was pitching ball that made the fans open their eyes. He did not allow a man to reach first, but struck them out as fast as they came to the plate.
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In this round, which added a goose egg to the Gold Hill score, Ellis Darrel was included.
Reckless, in the last half of the third, aroused Ophir hopes by dropping the ball into left field. Lenaway made a grand effort to get under it, but it slipped over the ends of his fingers.
“Now, Joe,” begged Blunt, as the catcher picked out his bat, “bring Reckless in, and come in yourself.”
The backstop smiled genially, and proceeded to sacrifice Reckless to second. He almost got to first on the bunt, but was called out by the umpire.
“Now, do your prettiest, Clan,” urged Merry. “You’ll never have a better chance to do something.”
“Watch me, that’s all,” grinned the red-headed chap. “Here’s where I make up for some of my errors.”
Then an awful thing happened. Clancy hit a long fly. The coacher thought the fielder couldn’t possibly get it, and started Reckless to third. But the fielder, making a magnificent running catch, took the ball in out of the wet and whipped it to second.
That was all; and the best chance Ophir had yet had to score was lost. The Gold Hillers began to sing, and some of the more demonstrative marched in a procession around the grand stand, using their megaphones to “rub it into” the Ophirites.
The score remained two to nothing. By magnificent work, Merriwell and his swarthy backstop continued adding ciphers to the Gold Hill score, but they were not able to get any runs for themselves.
“Something’s bound to happen yet, colonel,” said Mr. Bradlaugh, in the second half of the eighth. “I shouldn’t wonder if the balloon would go up about here.”
“The score would have been twenty to nothing,” declared Colonel Hawtrey, “if Merriwell and that Mexican
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 catcher hadn’t stood like a wall between our boys and first. By Jove! I never saw steadier or more clear-headed work, and right in the face of the worst support I ever heard of. You can thank your battery, Bradlaugh, for getting off easy this afternoon.”
“Perhaps,” answered the general manager hopefully, “we’ll be able to thank our battery for more than that.”
“I can admire your grit, anyhow,” laughed Hawtrey, “even if I can’t applaud your judgment. You are right about one thing, though, Bradlaugh: A game is never finished until the last man is out.”
The Gold Hillers, who had hoped to roll up a big score, were now contenting themselves with merely holding their opponents. Two runs would be enough. They would win one of the hardest games ever contested on the Ophir diamond.
“We’ve got to have three tallies, fellows,” was the word Frank was circulating among his men. “All together, now! We’ve fooled with these Gold Hill chaps long enough.”
Frank was cheerful, even sanguine. Even when Darrel fanned the first three men to come to bat, Merriwell continued to cheer up his discouraged teammates.
“We’re going to win,” said he confidently. “I’ve got a hunch to that effect.”
“Pretty soon it will be too late to start,” returned Blunt gloomily.
“It’s never too late to start, Barzy, so long as the under dog has a chance to bat.”
“Well, we’ve only got one more chance.”
“That will be enough—providing we improve it.”
During the first half of the ninth, Gold Hill came within a hair’s breadth of getting another run. A throw to the plate, relayed to Merriwell and passed to the backstop,
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