Fardale field was clothed in gloom. The only bright spot was the stand occupied by the Franklin rooters, and they were certainly making things lively in that quarter. The great game was on, but as far as Fardale’s chances were concerned, it seemed to be all off. Inning after inning had run along, and time after time Fardale had been saved from disgrace only by mere good luck.
As it was, the eighth inning had started with the score four to one in favor of Franklin. And Peters, the Franklin pitcher, had tightened up after the first inning, and was invincible.
Randall, pitching for Fardale, had started out strong. In the fifth he had let in a run, and in the sixth his poor support had sent him up in the air. For Fardale had certainly put a poor team in the field, with substitutes behind the bat, on first, and in the pitcher’s box.
Even so, Randall might have held Franklin had his own men been able to hit the swift curves of Peters. Once he loosened up, however, Franklin romped away with the game, and the slaughter was on. All Fardale could now hope for was to hold down the score, and she was fighting desperately to that end.
[203]
Coach Trayne and Captain Ted Crockett were talking anxiously together while the Fardale batters were being mowed down in the final half of the eighth.
“We’re gone completely now,” announced Crockett gloomily. “We’ll get another chance next inning, but the game’s over.”
“I can’t understand it,” said the coach, in perplexity. “I’ve had no answers to any of my telegrams from Chip or Billy or Clancy. At noon I wired the hotel there, and they said that all three had left yesterday. Nobody knows where they are.”
“Something’s happened to ’em, all right,” said Ted, as a storm of cheers swept out from the Franklin bleachers, announcing that Peters had fanned a second man. “Maybe that car of Clancy’s has blown up. Did you wire Mr. Merriwell?”
“I’ve wired everybody in the country!” cried the coach desperately. “Nobody knows anything about it. Merry left Carsonville yesterday morning, with Clan and Billy. That’s all. They’ve dropped completely out of sight.”
“It’s a rotten shame,” muttered Crockett. “We had to put Randall in, and they have simply murdered him. The boys are all up in the air, too.”
“Well, hold the score down,” said Coach Trayne, in desperation. “That’s all we can hope for now.”
[204]
Another roar went up from Franklin as Peters fanned the third man. Villum Kess trotted out to right field in gloomy fashion.
“Ve vos complexicated now,” he said, as Crockett joined him. “Ve make a losings ven Chip vos gone, yah! Ve vos our feet viped off der earth of, Ted!”
“We’ll have to hold ’em,” said the captain glumly. “We get one more chance.”
Randall went into the pitcher’s box amid a storm of cheers from the Fardale bleachers. The Southerner realized that he had been outclassed, but he was resolutely trying to hold his self-control.
“All right, Randall!” cried Crockett. “We’re all with you, old man!”
“Yah, ve vos all mit you,” piped up Villum. “But I vish dot Merry vos mit us, like plazes!”
As the first Franklin man came up, Fardale redoubled its cheers. It was the first of the ninth. If Franklin could be held to its four runs, there was still a slim chance that Peters might be pounded in the next half. But every one admitted that the chance was too slim to be hoped for. Peters had everything.
The batter fell on Randall’s first ball, and cracked out a neat single. The next batter tried for a sacrifice, but he was unable even to put himself out. The ball rolled down to third, and the third baseman made a wild throw to first.[205] Both men were safe, and the Franklin cheers redoubled.
It was too much for Randall. In his anger he sent a fast one at the plate, and Peters himself landed on it. The ball streaked down toward first, but the unhappy substitute, playing Clancy’s position, muffed it. By the time he got through booting it around, the bases were filled, not a man was out, and Franklin seemed fated to run up a tremendous score.
The next man advanced to the plate with a wide grin at Randall. The heavy end of Franklin’s batting order was up. At this instant, however, a shrill yell ascended from the gate.
“Merriwell! Merriwell! Stop the game!”
The yell rose to a roar. Men rose in the bleachers, stamping and waving their hats. Every one knew of Merriwell’s unexplained absence. Randall went white, and would have delivered the ball had not the umpire stopped him.
Across the field careered a dust-white Hornet, with three uniformed figures clinging to it. Ted Crockett turned with a wild yell as Clancy drew up behind third.
“Get in the game!” he shouted. “Merry, pitch! Take first, Clan! Catch, Billy!”
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