CHAPTER XXXIII A BATTLE ROYAL.

Cross hit to Frank, who tossed the ball to Browning for an easy out.

Then it was Sprowl’s turn.

As Bart crouched under the bat of the tricky catcher, he muttered:

“I want to give you a warning, Mr. Man.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“If you hit my bat with your mitt when I’m striking you’ll be sorry. I won’t stand for it.”

“Why, what will you do?”

“You’ll find out!”

Sprowl laughed sneeringly. Then he batted a grounder to Ready, who made a poor throw to Browning, and Sprowl reached first.

“Don’t talk to me!” he cried. “Don’t warn me! I always get a hit when somebody threatens me.”

“Dot hid dit not get you!” cried Dunnerwurst. “Id peen not a hit. Off Vrankie Merrivell you got yet no hits ad all, and maype you vill nod dood id efer so long as I live.”

“Why don’t you learn to talk United States?” cried Rush, who was coaching.

“He can talk better than he can play ball,” said Sprowl, in his nasty way.

Wolfers strode out with his bat.

“Got a hit off me, did you, Merriwell!” he thought. “Well, here is where I even up.”

Then Frank fooled him handsomely with a swift rise, a drop and a “dope ball.” Wolfers struck at them all. He fancied the dope was coming straight over, but the ball seemed to pause and hang in the air, as if something pulled it back. This caused the batter to strike too soon.

“Str-r-r-rike—kah three! You’re out!”

The man from Wisconsin turned crimson with anger and mortification.

“Oh, I presume you think you’re a great gun!” he snapped at Frank.

“Not at all,” retorted Merry. “It’s no trick to strike you out.”

This infuriated Wolfers.

“I don’t think it’s much of a trick to strike you out,” he flung back.

“It’s dead easy for a good pitcher to do it,” laughed Merriwell.

“Oh, you fresh duck!” muttered Wolfers, as he walked to the bench. “Just you wait! I’ll give you your medicine.”

His appearance of good nature had vanished like fog before a hot sun. He was now consumed with rage and a desire to outdo Frank in some manner.

“Lace ’em out, Kit!” implored Sprowl, as Kitson advanced to the plate. “He’s easy.”

Never in his life had Merry pitched with greater ease. He used curves, speed and a change of pace, having perfect control. Although he could handle the “spit ball,” he did not attempt to use it. He did not believe it necessary.

Kitson was anxious to hit. Merry seemed to give him pretty ones, but the ball took queer curves and shoots, and soon the right fielder of the Elks struck out.

The third inning was over, and neither side had scored. It was a battle royal between Wolfers and Merriwell.

Up to this point two clean hits, one a two-bagger, had been made off Wolfers.

Merriwell had not permitted a hit.

Morgan opened the fourth by smashing a hot one along the ground to Rush, who stopped it but chased it round his feet long enough for Dade to canter down to first.

“Here we go!” roared Browning.

“You won’t go very far!” sneered Wolfers.

Badger tried to sacrifice, but his bunt lifted a little pop fly to Wolfers, and he was out.

Then came Merriwell again.

“Don’t let this chap get another hit off you, Bob,” implored Cronin.

“No danger of it,” said the pitcher.

But on the second ball delivered Frank reached far over the outside corner of the plate and connected with the ball, cracking out a hot single that permitted Badger to speed round to third.

Merry took second on the throw to catch Badger at third.

The look on the face of Bob Wolfers was murderous. He stood and glared at Frank, who smiled sweetly in return.

“You’re the luckiest fellow alive!” said the Elkton twirler. “I saw you shut your eyes when you struck at that ball.”

“You’re so easy that I can hit your pitching with my eyes closed,” retorted Merriwell.

Imagine the feelings of Spud Bailey. He was strutting now in the midst of the village boys, not a whit intimidated by threats of a “walloping” after the game.

“I told you fellers how it would be before der game began,” he said, throwing out his chest, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “It couldn’t help bein’ dat way. Dey’re bangin’ der eye outer Wolfers, but I don’t see ’em hitting Frank Merriwell any.”

“Wot sorter feller are you ter go back on yer own town, hey?” savagely snarled Freckles. “We’ll all t’ump yo’ as soon as we git ye off der groun’s!”

“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!”

“You are!”

“I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!” asserted Spud. “How many Elkton fellers is dere on dat team? They’ve dropped all our players an’ brung fellers in from ev’rywhere. If Frank Merriwell’s team was playin’ fer us, all you fellers would be yellin’ fer them.”

This sort of logic did not go with the other boys, nevertheless, and Spud was very unpopular.

Once again it was the turn of Bart Hodge to bat. He gave Sprowl a look as he came out.

Sprowl snickered.

“You scare me dreadfully,” he said.

“Keep your paws off my bat when I’m striking,” warned Bart.

Wolfers started with a drop.

Bart missed it.

He longed to get a clean, safe hit to right field, being satisfied that Merry would score on it if obtained, following Morgan in.

The suspense was great, for every one realized that a hit meant one run—possibly two.

Then Bart began to make fouls.

Once Sprowl touched his bat, but he fouled the ball. He felt that he must have made a safe hit only for that light deflection of the bat just as he swung.

“Did you see that, Mr. Umpire?” he cried.

The umpire had seen nothing.

Like Ready, Bart stepped onto the plate and turned to Sprowl.

“I want to tell you something,” he said, in a cold, hard tone. “This is it: If you touch my bat again I’ll turn round and punch your face for you! Is that plain enough?”

“I’d enjoy having you try it!” flung back Sprowl.

“You’re quite certain to have the enjoyment.”

“I haven’t touched your bat. You dreamed it.”

“You hear what I said and take heed.”

Then Hodge stepped off, but he was ready to hit, so that Wolfers could not catch him napping, as Ready had been caught.

Wolfers took plenty of time and sent one straight over the outside corner.

Sprowl again touched the bat with his mitt just as Bart started to strike. True to his threat, Hodge flung the bat aside and sailed into the tricky catcher with both fists.

Sprowl seemed to expect it, for he snapped off his mask and met Hodge halfway.

He did not last long, for Bart smashed down the fellow’s guard and struck him a blow that sent him down in a heap.

What an uproar followed!

Several of Bart’s companions rushed from the bench and seized him, while players of the other team hurried to get between the two.

“Time!” yelled the umpire.

Ladies in the stand screamed and one fainted.

Men rose up and shouted incoherently, while the crowd from the bleachers poured onto the field.

It seemed that the game would end in a free fight.

In the midst of the excitement Seymour Whittaker forced his way into the midst of the struggling, wrangling mass of men.

“Gentlemen!” he cried; “be reasonable! I’ve been watching this thing. I played ball myself once. I saw our catcher touch the batter’s stick! He did it twice and did it deliberately. The umpire may not have seen it. The batter warned our catcher. He had a right to be mad. Don’t break this game up in a free fight! You know I have wagered money on our boys. I believe they can win, but I want them to win honorably. Wolfers doesn’t need a catcher to help him by such tricks. He can pitch well enough to win without such aid. Let’s be square. Let those fellows settle their trouble after the game is over. We’re not rowdies here in Elkton. We want to see square baseball. This business will hurt the game. Go back and sit down, all of you.”

These words were enough, although other men now declared that they had seen Sprowl touch Bart’s bat. The crowd was quieted, and began to walk off to the bleachers.

Sprowl had been struck on the cheek, and Bart’s fist left a bad bruise there.

He swore he would get even with Hodge. His companions induced him to agree not to press the matter until after the game was finished.

Finally things quieted down and playing was resumed.

Hodge asked the umpire to give him a pass to first on the interference of Sprowl; but the umpire had not seen it, Sprowl denied it, and Bart was declared out on the third strike.

This made two men out, with Morgan and Merriwell on third and second.

Gamp was the batter, and everything seemed to depend on him.

Wolfers was on his mettle. His pitching against Joe was superb, for the tall chap did not touch the ball.

The Merries had been prevented from securing a run. They felt that they had been defrauded, for to all it seemed likely that Bart might have made a hit only for the interference of Sprowl.

As a pitchers’ battle the game was a great exhibition. Although seven hits were obtained off Wolfers in seven innings, the visitors could not score.

On the other hand, being in the most perfect form, Frank did not permit a hit in seven innings.

The eighth opened with Badger at bat.

Buck managed to roll a slow one into the diamond.

Both Cronin and Wolfers went after it, bothering each other, and Buck reached first by tall hustling.

Then came the hit of the day.

Merriwell was the man. Each time he had faced Wolfers there was “something doing.” This time Wolfers tried harder than ever to strike him out; but Frank slammed the ball against the centre-field fence for three bags, sending Badger home with the first run of the game.

Spud Bailey nearly died of delight.

“I knowed it!” he whooped. “Wot d’yer t’ink of him now, Freck?”

“He’s a lucky hitter,” said Freckles.

But the sympathy of several small boys had turned to the visitors. They admired Bart Hodge for standing up for his rights.

“G’wan, Freck!” they cried. “He’s a corkin’ player, an’ you know it.”

“I hope them fellers win,” said a tall, thin boy. “Dey’re all right.”

“They’ll win; don’t worry about that,” assured Spud.

Ben Raybold and Seymour Whittaker had found seats together after the excitement caused when Hodge hit Sprowl.

Raybold had complimented Whittaker on his manliness and sporting blood in taking the stand he did.

“It may cost you a hundred dollars, Mr. Whittaker,” said Raybold.

“I don’t care a rap!” retorted the Elktonite. “I want to see a square game, win or lose.”

After Frank’s hit, Raybold asked Whittaker what he thought of Merry.

“He’s the greatest ball player I ever saw!” exclaimed Whittaker. “We must have him on our team.”

“You haven’t money enough in the State of Ohio to get him on salary,” said Raybold.

That run obtained by Badger was the only one secured in the eighth. The Elks tried hard, but they could not fathom Merry’s curves.

In the first of the ninth the visitors did nothing, Wolfers striking out three men, one after another, as fast as they faced him.

Although the Elkton pitcher was sore, he kept up his good work. He was not a quitter. He played ball right along, never failing to do his best.

When the Elks came to bat in their half of the ninth Jack Lawrence implored them to get a run somehow.

“Don’t let them shut us out!” he entreated. “It will be a disgrace!”

“I thought so a while ago,” said Wolfers, in a low tone; “but it will be no disgrace to be whitewashed while batting against a fellow like that Merriwell. I didn’t think he could pitch at all. He’s the best man I ever saw toe the rubber! I’m going to tell him so after the game. Why, Lawrence, we’ve got a team of hitters. Every man is a sticker. Do you realize that we haven’t secured a single safe hit to-day?”

“I realize it!” groaned Lawrence.

Nor did they secure one. For Merry it was a “no-hit, no-run” game. Although he struck out but one man in the ninth, the other two batted easy bounders into the diamond and were thrown out at first.

The game ended one to nothing in favor of the Merries.

Bob Wolfers was the first to reach Frank and grasp his hand.

“Boy, you’re all right!” he cried. “If I’ve said anything unpleasant, I apologize. You’re a gentleman, too! As a pitcher, you’ve got any youngster living skinned a mile!”

The Elks remembered what had followed the first game, when the Merries were defeated, and they did not fail to cheer for the winners.

“Sa-a-ay, Mr. Merriwell—sa-a-a-ay!”

Frank looked round.

Spud Bailey and a dozen other youngsters had managed to crowd as near him as possible. Freckles was with them, hanging back a little.

“Dese are me frien’s,” said Spud, with a wave of his hand. “I tole ’em wot you could do, an’ now dey know it. Dey t’ink you’re de goods. Permit me ter introduce ’em.”

“With pleasure,” smiled Frank.

And he made every one of them—even Freckles—as proud as a peacock by shaking hands as they were presented by Spud. In after years they would boast of the day when they shook hands with Frank Merriwell, the greatest pitcher “wot ever was.”

The End