Owen Bold was the first batter to face the Maplewood pitcher in the last half of the ninth inning. After two balls had been called, Bold hit a savage liner in the direction of Connor, who was playing at short. Connor made a sidelong leap and caught the ball with his bare right hand. It was a startling play, but it caused many of the spectators to groan with dismay.
“Robbery!” muttered Bold as he turned back toward the bench. “That was a clean hit in nine cases out of ten. He didn’t know he had it.”
Billy Bradley followed Bold, and he felt his nerves quiver under the strain.
“Great codfish, do hit it out!” implored Uncle Gid Sniffmore. “We’ve got ter have this game, boys.”
Bradley responded by smashing a hot liner toward Dillard, who made a beautiful stop and snapped the ball to Hunston, on first.
Bradley was out.
There was another groan from the spectators.
“It’s all over!” shouted Hunston. “We’ve taken a scalp, boys!”
“Not yet!” grated Brad Buckhart, as he picked out his pet bat and strode toward the plate. “I opine I’ll try to put up some sort of an argument with you.”
Bretton was confident now—in fact, he was too confident. Feeling sure he had the game in his hands, he gave the Texan a swift one over the outside corner.
It was just where Brad wanted it, and he lashed out a beautiful single.
An instant later there was a fearful uproar on the field, for Dick Merriwell was seen advancing toward the plate. The stonecutters thundered their applause, while bats, handkerchiefs, and flags waved everywhere.
“Enough to rattle any batter,” muttered Benton Hammerswell.
The pitcher waited until the shouting crowd became quieter. Then he put over a swift inshoot, which Dick missed.
“One strike!” cried the umpire.
“Get him, Bretton—get him!” cried Hunston.
Bretton tried a wide out, and a ball was called.
Then he whistled over another one, and again Dick missed it cleanly.
Once more the crowd groaned.
At this moment several persons who had reached the ground pushed through the crowd and appeared in view back of the ropes. Three of them were lusty-lunged chaps, for they gave a Yale cheer that surprised the crowd and caused almost every one to turn in their direction.
In the greatest amazement, Bart Hodge started up from the Fairhaven bench, crying:
“Frank Merriwell! Am I dreaming?”
It was Frank, accompanied by Browning, Rattleton, Elsie, Inza, and the others from the yacht Sachem.
Now, although that Yale cheer had caused so many to look toward the newcomers, even though Dick heard it and recognized his brother’s voice, the boy with the bat did not flicker an eyelash. Perhaps he was the most astounded and delighted person on that field, yet not a muscle of his face changed. With the gaze of a hawk he watched Bretton, fearing if he turned for a single instant the Maplewood pitcher would put a straight one over the base.
Perhaps never before had Dick’s nerves been tested under such circumstances. Had Frank and his friends known just how this game stood and how critical it was at that moment, beyond question they would have remained silent, fearing to unnerve the boy at bat.
Bretton was a sharp chap, and he heard Hodge shouting the name of Frank Merriwell. Instantly he decided that Dick Merriwell would be somewhat unmanned, and therefore he sent over a straight ball with all the speed he could command.
Dick met it squarely on the trade-mark.
Away sailed the ball—away over centre-field fence. It was into the frog pond, and batted to the extremity, at that.
“It’s a home run!” shouted Brick McLane.
Round the bases sped Brad Buckhart, and after him came the boy who had made this wonderful hit at such a critical moment.
Through the mire of the frog pond splashed the fellow in search of the ball. He found it and turned to throw it into the field. He did not possess the wonderful throwing arm of Chip Jolliby, and therefore he was compelled to throw to Dillard, the second baseman. Even had the fielder been able to line the ball to the plate, he could not have stopped the winning run, for when Dillard whirled with the sphere in his hand he saw Merriwell crossing the plate.
How Uncle Gid Sniffmore ever got down from the seats and rushed onto the field in advance of the crowd forever remained a mystery in Fairhaven. In some manner the old man made the descent, and, when those roaring stonecutters picked Dick Merriwell up and bore him triumphantly around on their shoulders, Uncle Gid marched in advance, waving his cane and dancing like a frolicsome boy.
No wonder Frank Merriwell stood with a mist in his eyes watching the spectacle. No wonder he gripped the arm of Browning, and, thrilled with satisfaction, cried in the big fellow’s ear:
“That’s Dick—Dick, my brother!”
It was in the fifth inning of the second game that a message from Rockford reached the ball ground in Fairhaven telling the players there that Seaslope had won her final game of the season. Having heard this report, Tom Fernald hastened round to the Maplewood bench, where Benton Hammerswell sat with the scorer and Bretton, the pitcher of the first game.
Fernald betrayed his anxiety in his face. In spite of his reputation as a “good loser,” Fernald was worried and distressed now.
“Say, Hammerswell, this thing is getting pretty desperate,” observed the Rockford man as he took a seat at Benton’s side.
“That’s right,” nodded the Maplewood manager grimly. “Our boys can’t seem to hit Merriwell at all. He’s pitching in amazing form. The presence of his brother seems to inspire him. It’s true they haven’t been able to score on Slocum thus far; but twice we have prevented it by good luck rather than good playing. They have a runner on third now and only one out. I am afraid they are going to get a start right here.”
“If you lose this game do you know what the result will be?” asked Fernald. “Do you know where it will land Fairhaven?”
“Why, I am not sure——”
“But I am sure. I have just heard from Rockford. Seaslope won the game to-day. Unless you take this game from Fairhaven, the team here wins the pennant and you land at the bottom. A little while ago you were confident of winning all your bets. It begins to look now as if you might lose them all.”
Slowly Hammerswell removed the half-smoked cigar from his lips. It quivered a little in his fingers. Fernald saw this, and knew how the strain was telling on the Maplewood man.
“Win or lose,” muttered the schemer, “I have done everything in my power to come out ahead. It’s impossible to play anything underhand here to-day. This crowd wouldn’t stand for it. Those stonecutters would lynch a crooked umpire, and they’d mob a player who did any dirty work on the field. I hope to win this game on its merits, but there’s no telling what may happen.”
“I know what will happen if you lose,” said Fernald bitterly. “I will get it in the neck. I will be down to hard pan. It will be a case of hustle for me in the future. Hang it all! Hammerswell, I had a comfortable little roll when the baseball season opened this year, but it will be wiped out if you don’t carry off this game.”
Hammerswell laughed harshly and bitterly.
“You’ll be no worse off than I will,” he muttered. “We’ll both be in the same boat. Ha, look at that! By George! it’s good for a run. Too bad! They’re going to score!”
The batter had driven a liner toward left field, and the runner on third unhesitatingly started toward the plate.
“Watch! watch!” exclaimed Fernald. “Halligan is after it.”
“He can’t get it,” said Hammerswell.
But the next moment he sprang up with a cry of satisfaction and relief, for Halligan had leaped into the air and captured the ball with one hand.
Immediately the Maplewood left fielder threw to Lumley at third, making a double play, as the base runner was unable to get back to the bag in time.
“Great stuff!” breathed Tom Fernald, in untold relief. “That kept them from scoring.”
“It did,” nodded Hammerswell, sitting down again; “but once more it was a piece of luck for us. We can’t depend wholly on luck.”
“Push your team now,” urged Fernald. “Make them get into this thing and win.”
Once more Dick Merriwell walked into the box, his eye clear, his determination firm and unshaken. Connor was the first man to face him.
Young Merriwell had found Connor a difficult hitter to deceive, but he now resolved to use his cleverest curves on the Maplewood shortstop. Opening with the jump ball, he caused Connor to lift a foul over Buckhart’s head, although Brad was unable to get back in time to catch it.
The Texan called for the combination ball, and Dick nodded.
Even though this remarkable curve was used, Connor again touched the ball. This time it was the slightest sort of a foul tip, but the ball was slightly deflected, and struck Buckhart on the end of his right thumb.
When Brad stooped to pick up the ball, which had fallen to the ground, he noticed that his thumb had been put out of joint and was split.
The umpire called time while Buckhart’s injury was examined by a doctor, who pulled the thumb into place and dressed it.
“You can do no more catching to-day,” said the doctor.
“Don’t you believe it, doc!” exclaimed the plucky Texan. “I opine I will stay right under the stick and finish the game.”
Nor could Buckhart be persuaded by any one to retire from the game. For all of his injury, he returned to his position.
Now, however, Dick felt that he must consider Brad’s condition, and in doing this he gave Connor a ball which the fellow hit and sent flying along the ground between first and second for a single.
Halligan followed with a scratch hit, and the bases were filled when Bold permitted Lumley’s hot grounder to get past him.
It was a time of great anxiety, as the game was drawing near its close, seven innings having been agreed upon in advance.
“Too bad that catcher got his bum thusted—I mean his ............