CHAPTER XXIX FRANK’S TURN AT THE BAT.

“Vrankie, you vos a pird!” said Hans Dunnerwurst, as he waddled in to the bench. “I nefer expectorated you couldt pitch a pall by your lame ankle much; but you dooded der trick mit a greadt deal of satisfactoriness. Yah!”

“I didn’t do it, Hans,” confessed Merry. “It was a case of good luck.”

“Don’d let me toldt you dot!” exploded the Dutchman. “You don’d pelief me!”

Frank had limped to the bench.

“How is the ankle?” anxiously asked Morgan.

“Oh, I think I’ll get through another inning with it.”

“I’m sorry I was not able to stay in; but you see how much better you did.”

“Which was luck, just as I told Hans.”

“I can’t see it that way. You made Cross roll that weak one to you.”

“Perhaps it looked that way,” said Merriwell; “but I want to whisper in your ear that I thought all the time that he was likely to lift out a two-bagger or something of the sort.”

“You’re too modest, Merry.”

“It’s not modesty, Dade; I’m simply telling you the truth. Let the rest of the boys think what they please.”

“Let them get some runs this inning and we’ll carry off this game,” said Dade. “I feel it in my bones. All we need is one run. That will do the trick.”

Browning was the first man up. The big fellow did not try for a long hit. He made an effort to drop the ball over the infield; but Rush covered ground swiftly and made a handsome catch.

“Too bad, Bruce,” said Frank, as Browning returned to the bench. “With a poorer shortstop out there, you would have had a safe one.”

“It’s rotten!” growled the big fellow, in disgust. “We want this game! We can’t lose it! We’ve got to have it! These fellows are too conceited. They call us kids! If we’re kids, I wonder where they can find their men!”

“This game vill vin us,” asserted Dunnerwurst. “Id can’t lose us.”

“Oh, go on!” blurted Bruce. “You’ll find it’s easy enough to lose this game. You think we can defeat anything, just because we’ve had good success thus far. I suppose you have an idea in your head that there are no teams in the country that can down us?”

“Oh, I don’d know apout dot!” admitted Hans. “Some uf der big league teams mighdt us down; but der Chicagos dit not dood id in California.”

Rattleton was the next man to face Wolfers. The local pitcher grinned a bit, for Harry had not even touched the ball during the game.

Wolfers regarded Rattles with supreme contempt, which led him into carelessness, and the first thing he knew Harry cracked out a daisy cutter and capered down to the initial sack.

“Dot peen der kindt!” yelled Hans, seizing a bat. “Now we vin der game alretty! Der pall vill knock me vor a dree-pagger righdt avay soon. Holdt yourseluf readiness indo to come home, Harry.”

“Oh, go ahead!” snapped Wolfers. “Stand up to the plate and let me strike you out. You talk too much with your face.”

“You couldn’d struck me oudt a year indo!” retorted Hans. “Shust vatch und see me put der fence ofer der pall. I vill dood id! Yah!”

He swiped wildly at the first ball and missed by at least a foot.

Wolfers chuckled.

“Oh, yes, you’ll put it over the fence!” he sneered. “It’s easy for you to do that.”

“Sure id vos easiness vor dot to do me,” said Hans. “Nexdt dime I vill hit id vere you missed id dot dime.”

The Elkton twirler kept Rattleton close to first.

Harry dared not try to steal unless he could secure a good lead, for Sprowl was a beautiful thrower to second.

After wasting one, Wolfers used the spit ball. It came from his hand with great speed and “broke” handsomely at exactly the proper point, taking a sharp jump.

Dunnerwurst tried to hit it.

Again he missed by at least a foot.

“Why don’t you drive it over the fence?” laughed the Wonder from Wisconsin.

“Sdop vetting der pall all ofer und I vill dood id,” asserted Hans. “Uf der ball hit me, id vos such a slipperiness dot id vould der bat pop off a foul for. Yah!”

“Oh, I can toss you one and you can’t hit it.”

“I vish I thought id!”

“Well, here goes.”

Wolfers actually tossed the Dutchman one.

Hans basted it full and fair on the trade-mark!

“Yow!” he whooped, as he dropped his bat and started for first.

But he stopped short, for the ball had landed in the hands of Tinker, where it stuck.

Tinker snapped it to first to catch Rattleton.

Had the throw been accurate Harry would have been caught, but Cross was compelled to jump for it. He muffed it, giving Rattleton time to get back to the bag.

“Wouldn’t dot jar you!” half sobbed Hans, as he turned toward the bench. “I had dot pall labeled dree pags vor.”

“Oh, give up! give up!” laughed Wolfers. “You’re beaten.”

“It is my hour of glory,” said Ready, as he picked out a slugger and sauntered toward the plate.

“You’ll be a snap,” said the Elkton pitcher.

“Don’d you pelief him!” cried Hans. “Der pall can hit you easy. You vill a three-pagger get.”

“A safe hit wins this game,” declared Jack. “Merry follows me, and he will promulgate the ball out of the lot.”

“You’ll get no safe hit off me,” asserted Wolfers.

He was mistaken. Ready did not try to “kill” the ball. He took a short hold on his bat and drove a clean hit out between first and second.

Rattleton stretched his legs and raced to third, while Ready took first.

Wolfers was disturbed.

“Here’s where de Merries win der game!” yelled a small boy. “Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter hit, an’ he always does de trick.”

Instantly a dozen of his companions turned on him.

“What’s der matter with you, Spud Bailey?” snarled a big chap, with red hair and plenty of freckles. “Wolfers will strike him out!”

“Bet you two hundred t’ousan’ dollars he don’t!” hotly retorted Spud. “Dey never strike dat boy out!”

“Bet your small change,” advised Freckles. “How do you know so much?”

“I’ve read about Frank Merriwell. Wot’s der matter with you! You’re a back number!”

“You’ll think you’re a back number arter you see wot Wolfers does ter him.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, yer will!”

“Naw, I won’t!”

“Yes, yer will!”

“Naw, I won’t!”

By this time they had their fists clenched and their noses close together, while they were glaring into each other’s eyes.

“Say,” said Freckles, “arter ther game I’ll give you all that’s comin’ ter ye!”

“You try it! I ain’t skeered of you!”

“Stop that an’ watch ther game,” said another boy, butting between them. “A hit will do ther trick fer them fellers now.”

“Wolfers won’t let him hit,” asserted Freckles.

“He can’t help it,” declared Spud. “Don’t you never read no papers? Don’t you know northing about Frank Merriwell? He’s the greatest baseball player in the country.”

“Guess ag’in,” advised Freckles.

Frank fouled the first ball pitched.

“Wot’d I tell yer?” shouted Freckles.

“He bit a piece outer it,” said Spud.

“He’ll have ter do better’n dat.”

“He will, all right, all right.”

Needless to say that Merry’s players were anxious. On third Rattleton crouched, ready to dash home on any sort of a hit. Ready played off first. He was tempted to go down before getting a signal from Frank. After that foul, Merry signaled. On the next ball pitched Jack scooted for second.

Sprowl made a fake motion as if he meant to throw to second, but snapped the ball to third.

Ready had slackened speed, intending to be caught between first and second if Sprowl threw to Tinker. Merry had signaled for Jack to work this trick in order to give Rattleton an opportunity to try to steal home.

The Elks declined to step into the trap.

Rattleton was compelled to plunge back to third.

“It’s all right now,” asserted Spud Bailey. “Frank Merriwell will drive in two runs, an’ he may make a homer.”

“You make me sick!” sneered Freckles. “I don’t berlieve he ever got a hit in his life.”

“You’ll see! You’ll see!”

Merry refused to bite at Wolfers’ “teasers,” but he missed one that was over the inside corner.

A moment later the third ball was called.

With two strikes and three balls declared, every one seemed to feel that the critical point of the game had been reached.

The next ball pitched might settle the contest.

Could Merriwell make a safe hit? That was the question.

“It wouldn’t surprise me to see him lift it over the fence,” muttered Bart Hodge.

Wolfers delivered the ball.

Frank struck!

And missed!

Plunk!—the ball landed in Sprowl’s mitt.

“You’re out!” yelled the umpire.

Frank had struck out!

His comrades on the bench seemed completely dazed.

Freckles gave Spud a jab in the stomach, whooping with delight:

“What’d I tell yer? Oh, you’re a knowin’ feller, you are! He done a lot, didn’t he!”

Spud made some kind of retort, but the roaring of the delighted crowd drowned his words.

Wolfers was the hero of the moment as he swaggered in toward the local bench.

Hans Dunnerwurst could not believe the evidence of his eyes.

“A misdake has made you,” he muttered, as he stared at the umpire. “Nefer in his life dit der pall strike him oudt.”

“Into the field, boys,” said Frank. “We must hold them down and get another inning. We still have a chance for this game.”

“How could you strike out, Merry!” muttered Bart Hodge. “How could you!”

Frank saw that his companions were badly broken up over what had happened.

His reputation as a safe hitter at critical moments was such that a failure seemed impossible.

“Brace up, fellows!” he sharply commanded. “The score is still tied.”

Morgan was angry.

“What’s the matter with you fellows?” he sharply demanded. “You think a man ought to hit all the time. Keep in the game, and Merry will pull it off the coals.”

The Elks were jubilant. They patted Wolfers on the back and complimented him on his cleverness.

“Get out!” he growled. “It was no trick at all. I can strike him out four times out of five. I know his weak spot.”

“I’ve been told he has no weak spot,” said Billy Cronin.

“That’s rot! He has a weak spot, all right enough. I wish all the others on his team were just as easy.”

“Well, you’ve made yourself solid in this town, anyhow,” said George Rush. “The crowd was frightened. A hit just then might have fixed us.”

“Well, you must jump in and get some runs now,” said the manager. “We may as well wind the game up. The crowd is satisfied, and the town will back this team after to-day.”

“If we ever get a chance at the other teams in this old league we’ll trim them for fair,” grinned Rush. “But I’m afraid we’ll frighten them so they’ll continue to hold us out.”

“They can’t do it,” declared Lawrence. “The Central League can’t run without us. A three-cornered league is rotten, and the other towns must have us. They’ll come to time pretty soon. If we can get games enough, we’ll lose no money while this thing is hanging fire. We’ll make something on the game to-day. It might have hurt us if we’d lost, as I agreed that the winners should take two-thirds of the net receipts. Merriwell made the terms. He’ll have to be satisfied with a third if we carry off the game.”

“We’ll carry it off,” said Sprowl, as he selected a bat. “This inning ought to be enough.”

“Aw, it’ll be enough,” nodded Wolfers. “Go ahead and get first, Chuck. I’ll drive you round. That feller can’t pitch any better than he can bat.”

Wolfers had a very poor opinion of Merriwell’s ability.

Sprowl hit the first ball pitched.

It skimmed along the ground about four feet inside the line to first base.

Browning sprang in front of it, but he did not touch it with his hands, and it went between his legs.

Sprowl turned toward second, but Dunnerwurst had secured the ball, and he dodged back to first.

“You’re a mark, Merriwell,” laughed Wolfers, as he walked out to hit. “How did you ever get a reputation as a pitcher, anyhow?”

Frank was a trifle “touched” by the fellow’s insolence, although he did not betray it.

“Getting a reputation isn’t as difficult as keeping it sometimes, you know,” he said.

“Well, don’t you care. You’re up against the real thing to-day. You might beat dub teams; but it’s different when you have to face the real hot stuff.”

“If I’m able,” thought Merry, “I’m going to strike you out.”

He knew this would not be a simple matter in case Wolfers tried to sacrifice for the purpose of advancing Sprowl; but the conceit and insolence of the fellow made him long to accomplish the feat.

Frank summoned all his power of self-command. He had watched to learn the weak points of the man at bat, and now he commanded himself to be accurate and to do the things he wished.

As a result, he fooled the hitter with the first two balls pitched, Wolfers going after both of them and missing.

As Hodge snapped the ball back to him, Merry decided on the course he would pursue. He knew Wolfers would expect him to “waste” a ball in an attempt to fool him, this being the natural course when two strikes and no balls had been called. Instead of doing so, Frank summoned his speed and control and drove a straight one over the very heart of the plate.

When it was too late, Wolfers realized what Merry had done. He made a weak and tardy swing at the ball, which he did not touch.

“Str-r-r-rike—kah three!” cried the umpire. “You’re out!”

Wolfers flung aside the bat and paused, his hands on his hips, staring at Merry.

“You’re very clever!” he sneered.

“Thank you,” said Merry.

“No thanks needed. Only an amateur would put a straight one over under such circumstances. It’s always impossible to tell what a greenhorn will do.”

Wolfers was sore. He did not like to acknowledge that he had been outwitted, although such was the case.

“Go sit down, Bob,” laughed Kitson, as he walked out to strike. “You missed. Let it go at that.”

Wolfers retired to the bench, feeling very sore.

Frank knew Kitson was reckoned as a clever base getter, for which reason he had been placed at the head of the list. Merry felt that it would be best to force the man to hit, if possible, and this he tried to do.

Now, however, all at once, he had lost control. The batter saw this and waited. As a result, he walked.

“It’s all to the good!” yelled Rush, as he capered on the coaching line. “Get away off! Take a lead! Divorce yourselves from those sacks! Don’t force Chuck, Kit. Remember he’s ahead of you. How easy to win a game like this! It’s a cinch! Move off, you snails! Get a long lead! Let him throw the ball. He’ll throw it wild in a minute. He hasn’t any control. He’s off his feed to-day.”

The spectators began to “root,” hoping to rattle Frank.

Merry took his time. He knew he was in poor condition, yet he was fighting to win the game, if such a thing could be done. For once in his life, he lacked confidence; but this was caused by his lame ankle, which had seriously interfered with his control.

In endeavoring to fool Cronin he put one straight over. It happened that Cronin had not expected it and simply drove a foul down back of first base.

Hodge was shaking a little, for he saw that Merry was in no condition to pitch against good batters.

“Give me another like that,” invited Cronin.

“Once is enough,” smiled Merry. “Why didn’t you take advantage of your opportunity?”

“Oh, well, give me anything. I’ll hit anything you get over the pan.”

In spite of this boast, Frank finally struck Cronin out with a ball close to his shoulder.

Hodge breathed easier.

“Merry will do it,” he thought. “He never fails. It isn’t in him to fail. But I fear he’ll fix his ankle to-day so he’ll take no part in the meet at Ashport.”

Perhaps Bart was the only one who fully realized how much it was costing Frank to pitch that game.

Two men were out now, and two were on bases.

Sparks, the centre fielder of the Elks, advanced to the plate.

“Give it a ride, Sparkie!” implored Rush. “You can do it! You must do it!”

“Hit it! Beef it out!” roared the crowd.

Sparks was eager to comply, for he felt that the game depended on him. He was a fine hitter, although Merry had struck him out in the eighth.

Frank worked carefully, taking all the time permissible. Hodge talked to him soothingly.

“This chap is shaking, Frank,” said Bart. “He remembered what you did to him before. He knows you can do it again. Watch him shake.”

“Shake your grandmother!” growled Sparks.

“It would be shameful to shake an old lady like that,” said Hodge. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

“Str-r-r-rike—kah two!” called the umpire, as Sparks missed a bender.

“Got him, Merry!” said Hodge confidently. “It’s a ten-inning game.”

“Who told you so much?” grinned Sparks.

“It’s all settled,” declared Bart. “Shut your eyes next time you swing. You’ll do just as well.”

He was trying to bother the batter by talking to him.

Frank attempted to fool Sparks with the next ball pitched. To his dismay, he realized the moment the ball left his hand that it was certain to curve over the plate.

Sparks was watching like a hawk. He saw the ball break and judged it correctly.

A moment later he hit it.

At the crack of ball and bat the spectators seemed to rise as one man. They saw the ball go sailing out on a line, rising higher gradually. It was a long, hard drive, not a rainbow fly.

Sprowl and Kitson capered along over the bags.

Gamp stretched his long legs in an effort to get under the ball. He covered ground with amazing strides.

“All to the mustard!” yelled Rush. “He couldn’t touch it in a thousand years! The game is ours, boys! We had to have it!”

“Get dot pall under, Choe!” squawked Dunnerwurst. “Pick id oudt uf a cloudt! You can dood id!”

Frank was watching with no little anxiety. He knew Joe was a wonderful fielder, and he had seen him make some astonishing catches; but his judgment told him that the chances were decidedly against the long-legged chap.

Gamp knew it, too, and he was trying harder than he had ever tried before in all his life.

“I must get it!” he thought. “I will get it!”

Joe knew the game depended on his success. If he failed, the Elks would be the winners. His heart leaped into his throat. He seemed to find it necessary to set his teeth to keep it from leaping quite out of his mouth.

He saw the ball beginning to fall.

“I must get it! I will!” he repeated.

In his mind he saw what would follow failure. He saw the Elks triumphant, the crowd roaring with joy, his own friends dejected and downcast. He even saw himself walking in from the field, his head hanging, unable to look Frank in the face. He knew how Frank would take it; he knew he would be a good loser.

Across from right field came the wail of Dunnerwurst:

“Get dot pall under, Choe! You can dood id!”

He was doing his level best; it was not in him to do more. He realized at last that he was going to miss the ball by inches—if he missed it.

Oh, that he could cover a little more ground! Oh, that he had wings!

His comrades knew how madly he was trying. They scarcely breathed.

“Good old Joe!” whispered Rattleton. “He can’t fail!”

But there are things beyond human accomplishment. It was possible for Gamp to fail.

He made a last great leap, his hands outstretched.

The ball barely touched the ends of his gloved fingers.

Three inches farther and he might have held it.

He did not catch it, and Elkton had won the game.

As soon as Joe could stop he looked after the ball a moment and then turned to walk in, refusing to chase and recover it.

Roar after roar came from the stand and the bleachers. The crowd was wild with delight. It was the sort of finish to fill them with unutterable joy. They waved their hats, hands, and handkerchiefs in the air. Men howled hoarsely; women added a shriller note to the volume of sound.

For the moment Sparks was the hero; but Wolfers was not forgotten. Down from the bleachers poured the spectators and out onto the field they streamed. They wanted to get near those two great heroes. They packed close about them. They even tried to lift and carry them, but neither man would have it.

“Stop your foolishness!” cried Wolfers sharply. “Didn’t you ever see a game won before?”

“This certainly is a red-hot baseball town!” laughed Sparks.

“It will be red hot after this. The game went just right to please the bunch.”

In all Elkton it seemed that just one inhabitant was downcast. Spud Bailey looked sick. He said not a word when Freckles jumped on him and punched him, crying jubilantly:

“Yah! yah! yah! What do you think about it now? Knew a lot, didn’t ye! Your great Frank Merriwell got his dat time! He jest did!”

Frank Merriwell waited for Gamp. Joe had his eyes on the ground as he came up. Merry took his arm, and they walked in together.

“Dud-don’t touch me!” said Gamp huskily. “I’m a lul-lobster!”

“You made a wonderful run for that ball, Joe,” said Merry. “I didn’t think you could get anywhere near it!”

“Th-three inches mum-mum-more and I’d ha-had it!” groaned the sorrowful fellow. “I lul-lost the gug-game!”

“Nothing of the sort!”

“Yes, I did!”

“I lost it myself. I couldn’t control the ball, and I gave that batter one just where he wanted it.”

“It’s all right for you to sus-say that, Merry; but I didn’t cuc-catch that fly.”

“No fielder could have caught it, and not one in a thousand could have touched it.”

Still Gamp blamed himself.

Hodge had flung aside the mask and body protector. He glared at Joe as the tall fellow came up.

“Why didn’t you get your paws onto that ball?” he snarled.

“I ought to,” said Joe.

“Of course you had! That would——”

“Stop, Bart!” commanded Frank promptly. “You know, as well as I, that Joe came amazingly near getting it.”

“Well, why didn’t he?”

“Because it was beyond human accomplishment. You have no right to speak to him that way. Better take it back.”

Bart muttered something and began overhauling the bats to get hold of his own stick, which he religiously cared for at all times. The sting of defeat was hard to bear.

Merry was not satisfied.

“You know who lost the game, Bart,” he said. “You know I am alone to blame. Don’t try to put the blame onto any one else. Kick at me for my rotten pitching, if you like.”

Hodge said nothing now. He had found his bat, but he glared at the stick as if that were somehow to blame for the misfortune that had befallen them.

Dunnerwurst seemed on the verge of tears, while Rattleton looked sad enough.

The loss of this particular game had depressed the whole team more than anything that had happened on the entire trip.

Finally Hodge turned to Gamp, who was pulling on his sweater.

“I beg your pardon, Joe,” he said sincerely. “I was wrong. I know it. You were not to blame.”

“Yes, I was!” persisted Gamp, willing and ready to shoulder the burden.

“Not a bit of it,” asserted Bart. “It was fate. We had to lose the game. We were all to blame. We couldn’t hit Wolfers! I’d like to try it again!” he savagely ended.

“We’d all like to try it again,” said Browning.

“Can’t we?” eagerly asked Rattleton.

“Let’s!” grunted Badger.

“Get together, fellows,” directed Frank. “We’ll give Elkton a cheer.”

“It’s their place to cheer us first,” objected Hodge.

“Never mind that. We’ll get ahead of them. Open it up good and hearty. Let’s show them that we can lose without crying baby. None of us fancies a baby.”

He gathered them about him and led the cheer, which was hearty enough.

The Elks were taken by surprise. Some of them had started to leave the field. The manager realized he had been outdone in politeness, and he hastened after his players, hustling together those he could assemble. Then they cheered, but it lacked the vigor of the cheer from the Merries.

This little piece of business on the part of the visitors caught the fancy of the crowd. The spectators realized now that Frank and his comrades had made a game fight.

“You’re all right, blue boys!” shouted a man. “You can play the game!”

“That’s right,” agreed another. “You’re dandies, boys!”

Others followed their example. The crowd could afford to be generous. It was perfectly satisfied.