It was the last half of the ninth inning. There were two out and two on bases. A hit by Merriwell would certainly bring in the catcher, and, if the hit happened to be a two-bagger, a couple of scores might be put across the pan. This is as far as the wildest dreams of the Ophirites allowed them to go.
Ellis Darrel was keyed up to the highest pitch of achievement. If he could strike out Merriwell—something which he had not been able to do so far—the danger point would be safely passed. He made up his mind that he would fan him.
It was something which Darrel hated to do. There was no one whom Darrel thought more of, or to whom he owed a greater obligation, than Frank Merriwell, junior.
With face a little white and eyes gleaming restlessly Darrel shot a ball across the plate. It was not the sort of a ball Merry wanted, so he let it pass.
A discontented murmuring came from the wild-eyed Ophirites as the umpire called the strike.
There was silence in the crowded grand stand, over the bleachers, and among the automobiles. All eyes were fixed, as by a weird fascination, on the trampled ball field, holding the players steadily under gaze, and keeping nervous track of the base runners and of the lithe, slender figure holding the bat.
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Darrel let fly with another ball. It was wide. The third one delivered was also too far off to count. But the next one——
Merriwell, with a terrific swing, met it squarely. With a smack that could be heard for half a mile in the quiet air, the bat started the ball skyward.
Wild cheers broke from the crowd, and the hardest cheering was done by Colonel Hawtrey. What did he care how that magnificent hit might benefit Ophir at the expense of Gold Hill? He had just witnessed the finest example of pluck in the face of overwhelming discouragement which it had ever been his lot to observe.
“Go it, Merriwell!” shouted the old colonel, hopping up and down and thrashing his arms in the air. “See how many bases you can tear off before the ball comes in.”
“There’s the greaser, spilling over the home plate!” howled a delirious voice.
“And here comes Clancy! Hoop-a-la! Watch him go. That red head looks like a comet.”
Blunt was standing up on the players’ bench, roaring at the top of his voice. What he said, however, was lost in the general hubbub.
While Clancy was covering the ground as though it burned his feet, the fielders were scrambling to get the ball. Farther and farther out they went, clear down into the distant oval of the cinder track.
Clancy came home—the score was tied. Still the ball was not coming back.
“Come in, Merry!” howled a hundred frantic voices. “Come in! You’ve knocked out a home run!”
This was really the case. The voices of the coachers were drowned in Merriwell’s ears, and he had to keep
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track of the ball himself. He was disposed to play safe. In the face of the general yell for him to get in the winning tally, however, he plunged for home with all the speed that was in him. By then the ball was coming, and those who had shouted for Merry to finish his circle of the bases were beginning to feel sorry that their ardor had carried them away.
The ball was relayed from second by a beautiful throw. Bleeker nabbed it and reached for Merry. But, at that moment, Merry’s feet were on the plate.
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CHAPTER XXXIV. WORSE—AND MORE OF IT.
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CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PLOT THAT FAILED.
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