In Rockford the dinner hour came at midday, and the island boys ate heartily, all being in good spirits, for they believed, with Dick on the slab, there was an excellent prospect of defeating the locals that day. Being permitted to gorge himself with custard pie, Obediah Tubbs was unusually jolly and chipper. An hour later, as Dick was donning his uniform in his room, Buckhart appeared, having already changed his clothes.
“Pard,” said the Westerner, as he came in and dropped limply on a chair, “there sure is something the matter with me. Never before felt so blamed lifeless and inert in all my career.”
“Perhaps you ate too much,” suggested Dick.
“I don’t opine it was that. Never had a square meal take the snap out of me this way before.”
Merriwell now observed that his friend was unusually pale.
“I hope you’re not sick, Brad!” he quickly exclaimed. “If you should fall sick now we’d be in a bad hole this afternoon.”
“Oh, I’m not exactly sick,” declared the Texan. “I’m jest weak and done up. Don’t seem to care a rap whether I play ball or not. It’s a mighty odd thing for me, and I don’t know what to make of it.”
Never before had Merriwell known his friend to be other than eager and enthusiastic in regard to a coming game, and this surprising change in Buckhart was quite enough to alarm the captain of the island team.
“Perhaps you need a little air,” suggested Merriwell. “It’s hot to-day. A good walk might brace you up.”
“That’s just what I don’t want to take,” said Buckhart. “I feel more like stretching out somewhere and keeping still.”
Although he was not a little disturbed, Dick said nothing more until he had finished dressing for the ball field. When he was quite ready he tucked his favorite glove into his belt, looked around to make sure Garrett had sent all the bats to the field, and then called Brad to follow and started for the door.
With his hand on the knob, he paused and looked back.
Brad had not stirred. With a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, he sat in a listless attitude, apparently quite unconscious of his surroundings or wrapped in deep thought.
“Come on, Buckhart!” impatiently cried Dick.
Still the other did not move.
Merriwell turned back and stepped quickly to his friend’s side, seizing him by the shoulder and giving him a shake.
“Come out of that trance! What’s the matter with you?”
Apparently with an effort, the Texan pulled himself together.
“What is it?” he inquired. “Was I asleep? Great horn spoon, I feel queer! Kind of numb all over!”
“Are you numb?” said Dick. “I should hate to see you go into a game in this condition. Brace up!”
Thus adjured, Buckhart rose with a great effort to his feet. He brushed a hand across his eyes, as if trying to wipe away a blurring mist.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Go ahead, partner. I’m with you.”
Although Dick flung the door open and stepped outside for his friend to follow, Buckhart made a strange miscalculation and ran full against the edge of the door, which caused him to recoil and very nearly upset him.
“Well, of all things!” gasped Merriwell, as he sprang back into the room and seized his companion by the arm. “Can’t you see?”
“Sure,” answered Brad; “but that door moved just as I arrived at it. It certain did, pard?”
“Have you been drinking?” inquired Dick.
“Hold on, Richard Merriwell!” growled the Texan resentfully. “You know I reside on the sprinkler. I never lap up ardent liquors.”
“Well, this is the first time I ever saw a sober man in your condition.”
Weakly Brad pushed Dick off.
“I am all right,” he muttered grimly, evidently bracing up as much as possible. “I’ll prove I’m all right.”
He then walked out of the room, and Dick followed, closing and locking the door.
Once while descending the stairs the Texan stumbled and Dick caught hold of him, fearing he would lose his footing.
The boys were waiting below, and together the whole team left hurriedly.
In front of the hotel stood Tom Fernald, smoking a cigarette. He watched them as they came out, and his eyes surveyed Buckhart keenly. He noted Brad’s pallor and faltering step. He also observed that Dick had hold of Buckhart’s arm.
“All right,” muttered Fernald to himself. “Ripley did the job. He told me he saw Buckhart drinking the glass of water into which the powder had been dropped, but I thought he might be lying. That wild and woolly young Texan is doped for fair. With him in that condition Fairhaven stands no show of winning.”
Not one of the boys gave Fernald a glance. They started down the street, but paused at the first corner, for coming up another street that led to the water front was a large excursion party, headed by Brick McLane, of Fairhaven, who shouted at them and waved his hand.
“Here we are!” cried the husky lobsterman. “Here we are, a hundred and fifty of us right off the island. We’re going to root for our team to-day.”
It was the expected excursion party from Fairhaven, and at least fifty of the excursionists belonged to the fair sex.
Fairhaven had adopted Fardale’s colors, red and black. The girls were bearing tiny red and black banners, while the men and boys had red and black ribbons knotted to the lapels of their coats. The crowd was strung out on the sidewalk until it looked to be nearly twice as large as it really was.
“He! he! he!” snickered Obediah Tubbs. “We’re going ter have some backers to-day, by Jim! Rockford won’t do all the hollering.”
The face of Earl Gardner flushed with pleasure as he discovered Grace Garrett in the party.
Raymond Garrett now appeared, and, directed by him, the Fairhaven team marched toward the ball ground at the head of the excursionists.
“I’ve had a whole section of seats reserved for our crowd,” he explained to Dick. “I’m going to keep them together to-day. We’ll see if Rockford makes all the noise.”
“With so many rooters to encourage us, we ought to win,” declared Dick.
“Oh, we’ll win!” laughed Ray. “I feel it in my bones. Lots of Rockfordites will be poorer and wiser to-night. They are betting all kinds of money that Rockford takes the game. I hear that Tom Fernald has put up two or three hundred dollars already, and is looking for bets now.”
“He didn’t seem to be looking with much eagerness when we left the hotel,” retorted Dick. “Saw him standing in front of the Corndike all by himself.”
Merriwell said nothing to Garrett of Buckhart’s peculiar actions, but during the march to the ball ground he continued to watch Brad closely. To his relief, the Texan seemed to throw off some of the peculiar stupor that had attacked him.
When the field was reached and the islanders came pouring in at the gate, the Rockford spectators greeted them in various ways, some applauding and some uttering whistles and catcalls.
“They’ve come over to see their great team wiped off the map!” shouted a boy.
“That’s right!” cried another. “There won’t be anything but a grease spot left of Fairhaven after this game.”
The local team was already practicing on the field. Dick and his players assembled at their bench, opening their bat bags and laying out the bats. Buckhart sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. In a hazy way he seemed to watch the practicing players.
“Get up here,” commanded Dick, producing a ball and giving the Westerner a nudge. “I’m going to toss you a few.”
Brad rose and walked out to catch the ball.
“Going to take them barehanded?” inquired Dick.
Brad glanced at his left hand with an expression of surprise.
“Forgot my mitt!” he muttered. “Where is it?”
One of the boys found the big catching mitt and tossed it to Brad, who failed to catch it and was struck in the stomach by it.
Dick walked briskly over to the Texan and spoke to him in a low tone.
“Shake yourself together!” he sharply commanded. “Get out of that trance!”
Evidently Buckhart tried to obey, for he pulled on the mitt and fastened it, and then made a pretense of liveliness as he got into position.
Dick threw him a few slow ones at first, and Brad handled them, although there was a deep frown on his face and he seemed under a constant strain. When Merriwell used more speed the Fairhaven catcher muffed the ball at intervals.
Tom Fernald had followed the islanders to the field, and he watched Merriwell and Buckhart a few moments. Having done this, he turned away and began to look after bets. When he could not find even money, he seemed willing to give odds, and in several instances he bet two to one on Rockford.
No one knew how much Dick Merriwell was worried. He sought to conceal his state of mind from his companions and succeeded in doing so. When he was seen talking earnestly in a low tone to Buckhart, it was supposed the two were discussing the signals and speaking of the weak points of the opposing batters.
Uriah Blackington was again on the ground as manager of the home team, and his appearance in that capacity apparently gave satisfaction to the better element in the Rockford crowd.
“It’ll be a struggle of giants to-day—Garrett,” he laughed, approaching the manager of the island team and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The critical point in the race for the pennant has been reached. We’re compelled to take this game. Sorry for you, my boy.”
“Perhaps you’re wasting your sympathy,” returned Ray smilingly. “I see you have some new men on your team. Evidently you picked up the best men you could get off Hammerswell’s team which he released.”
“Yes, I mittened onto Torrey and Morrisey. Torrey is in my opinion the fastest third baseman in this league, and Morrisey is a great outfielder.”
“Those are not all your new men. I notice you have that Jersey City battery, Brodie and Kennedy.”
“Sure thing! Going to put them against you to-day. Hammerswell didn’t give those fellows a fair show. They are itching to demonstrate what they can do, and they’ll work for their very lives this afternoon. Really, Garrett, I don’t believe you have one chance in ten of taking this game. You know yourself that you’ve been lucky. Nothing but luck can explain the fact that a bunch of boys could keep up the pace in this league and make all the veterans hustle. Now don’t you believe yourself that it was luck more than anything else?”
“I do not, Mr. Blackington. It was brains, team work, and determination to win, combined with remarkable playing on the part of those boys. I confess that without Merriwell it is quite likely Fairhaven would not be in her present position. His spirit dominates his team. He rules those boys with a hand of iron hidden in a glove of velvet.”
Blackington laughed a little at this.
“I fail to see the hand of iron,” he declared. “That’s an excellent metaphor, Garrett, but I fancy it’s all imagination.”
Fairhaven now took the field for practice, which Dick made sharp and snappy, keeping every one, with the exception of Buckhart, on the move and on the qui vive the same as when playing in a game. Not more than ten minutes were spent in this practice. It began with a snap and ended with a snap, every player stopping and starting for the bench at a signal given by their captain.
The umpire walked onto the field and the home team trotted out.
The game was about to begin.