the whole of saturday, frank and his chums had planned to devote to that contest with gold hill. morning dawned bright and cloudless; but that is not saying much, for bright and cloudless mornings prevail in southern arizona for three hundred and sixty days out of every year.
this was a land in which summer sports were to be enjoyed the whole year round. for those who liked that sort of thing the climate had its appeal, but merriwell and his friends were beginning to think that the rigor of frost and snow, at the usual time, would form a pleasant change in that monotonous round of balmy weather.
saturday was free from the grind which, for five days in the week, the professor insisted on during the hours from eight to twelve. nearly the whole forenoon, therefore, merriwell was free to spend on the clubhouse grounds.
all his players had presented themselves, with the exception of mexican joe. it was around joe that the plot which concerned lenning was to revolve, and the absence of the catcher caused frank some apprehension.
there was a little practice on the diamond, but not enough to tire the players, and some time before noon merry, clancy, and ballard were back at the hotel. already people were beginning to arrive in town for the game. they came afoot, on horseback, and in buckboards and mountain wagons.
there were miners and ranchers, indians, mexicans,
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and chinamen. the bar z ranch, where blunt worked, sent a big delegation of cowboys—and they were all there to root for barzy.
news of the game had traveled like wildfire over the cattle ranges and the mining districts. young merriwell had been pretty much in everybody’s eye during the time he had sojourned in arizona, and much of the outpouring was due to a desire to see the lad who had proved himself such a worthy chip off the old block.
as a sporting event, the baseball game promised to be merry’s farewell performance. this, in itself, was a powerful lure in gathering the crowds.
as early as one o’clock the movement set in from ophir toward the clubhouse and the athletic field. the game was not called until three, but the eagerness of the people to secure good seats led them to make an early start for the grounds.
“there’ll be some crowd on hand to see us land on the gold hillers, chip,” remarked clancy, as they stood on the hotel veranda and watched the flow of people along the main street of the town.
“or to see the gold hillers land on us,” frank laughed.
“not at all, not at all,” insisted the red-headed chap. “it would be too awful if we got stung at this athletic game just before we shook the arizona dust from our brogans for good. here, where we have been consistently victorious, we must wind up our activities with a success that will eclipse all the others. victory shall perch on the ophir banners, to the end that finis coronat opus may be justly exemplified. i repeat, friends and fellow citizens, that——”
“choke off that old windjammer, chip!” begged ballard, coming out on the veranda at that moment with his
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suit case. “he’s got a notion that he’s making a public speech.”
“i’ve got other notions, pink, if it comes to that,” said clancy, giving his chum a look of intense disapproval. “one of them is that you’re little billy buttinski, and spoil many a good thing because you’re jealous.”
“jealous—of you? why, you red-headed snipe——”
“tut, tut!” interposed clancy, waving his hand restrainingly, “men have been shot for less than that. but don’t push me too far, pink, don’t push me too far.”
ballard was about to reply, keeping up his end of the good-natured give and take, when he caught sight of some one hurrying toward the hotel along the sidewalk.
“here’s our prize greaser, fellows!” he announced. “wonder why he wasn’t around this morning?”
“knows he didn’t need the practice, i guess,” answered clancy. “if the rest of us can measure up to the standard set by him and chip, gold hill won’t get a score across the pan.”
frank got his eyes on the approaching backstop and watched him keenly and critically. the appearance of the lad was the first intimation he had had of the success of darrel in carrying out the plot of the preceding evening. now, as his eyes followed the catcher along the sidewalk and to the steps of the veranda, merriwell experienced a thrill of profound satisfaction. darrel, it was evident at a glance, had done his work wonderfully well.
clancy and ballard had not been taken into merry’s confidence regarding that note which had arrived from burke. had they been with frank at the time of its receipt, very likely they would have been given the whole disturbing message. later, after his talk with darrel, frank was glad that his chums were in ignorance of
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burke’s note. now he was purposely keeping them in the dark.
“howdy, joe!” shouted clancy. “you’re looking as husky as a keg of nails.”
the other’s swarthy face parted in a genial smile; but, true to his taciturn disposition, he had nothing to say in reply.
“think we’re going to win, joe?” queried ballard, by way of testing the catcher’s confidence.
the other ducked his head emphatically.
“that’s right, joe,” grinned clancy, “i wouldn’t talk if it’s painful. if you’d only learn the deaf-and-dumb alphabet you could express yourself with your hands. i believe you’d be a fluent talker if you’d use your fingers.”
the catcher continued to grin expansively, but could not be coaxed into doing any talking.
merriwell had been watching clancy and ballard with sharp eyes while they were concerning themselves with the backstop. an expression of humorous relief crossed his face, and he reached out, caught the newcomer by the arm, and drew him to one end of the veranda. from the motions the two indulged in, clancy and ballard could see that they were going over the signals.
“i don’t see the use of that,” grunted clancy. “joe had ’em down pat yesterday afternoon, and it’s a cinch he wouldn’t forget ’em this quick.”
“nothing like being sure,” said ballard.
for nearly half an hour, merriwell and the catcher continued to go through their signals and to converse in low tones. at the end of that time, mr. bradlaugh came along in his car to take the lads to the grounds.
“all aboard, my lads!” he shouted.
as they piled into the car, frank noticed that mr. bradlaugh was eying the catcher with a strange, dubious
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expression. for a moment frank experienced a thrill of dismay, but he was reassured the next moment when mr. bradlaugh remarked:
“joe will show them to-day what a real high-class fellow behind the bat can do in helping to win a game. i hear that you’re more than pleased with your catcher, merriwell?”
“i am,” frank answered, with emphasis.
when the car reached the grounds, grand stand and bleachers were crowded. automobiles were lined up beyond the stand, and every point that commanded a good view of the diamond was filled.
gold hill was well represented, and more than half of the grand stand was occupied by stanch supporters of the rival team. gold hill and ophir did a lot of friendly joshing back and forth, and the yells and cheers rang in frank’s ears as he got out of the car and hurried to the dressing room in the gym.
all the rest of the men who were to play with the ophir team, or to sit on the benches as substitutes, were clad in their uniforms, and were waiting for frank and those with him to arrive. they were greeted warmly, and blunt slapped the backstop on the shoulder as he passed him with his dingy old suit case.
“we’re expecting great things of you, you old greaser wonder!” exclaimed the cowboy.
“that’s what, joe!” seconded handy.
“and you’re not going to disappoint us,” added reckless. “i know that just as well as i know that i’m alive.”
the catcher’s reply was a wide smile, but not a word. as he passed on and vanished into the dressing room, merriwell also smiled—but it was a smile of another sort.
while merry was getting into his baseball togs, a din
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of frenzied cheering was borne to him from the grand stand and bleachers. he knew, from the mere volume of sound, that the gold hill team had appeared from their dressing rooms under the grand stand, and had scattered over the diamond to warm up.
a few moments later, merry stepped out among his players, gathered them around him, and calmly scrutinized their flushed and eager faces.
“we’ve had two days of practice, fellows,” said he, “and we’re going up against a team that has been in harness for weeks. but don’t let that bother you. it’s the spirit you put into your work that counts. be on your toes every minute. come on!”
he flung open the gym door, bounded through it, and started at a trot toward the ball field. the backstop was at his side, and close at his heels trailed clancy and ballard. after them came the rest of the team.
a broadside of cheers went up from the spectators. gradually the volume of sound separated into staccato notes and pauses, and clear and high rolled the chant, “merry, merry, good old merry!”
frank flushed. he wondered what that crowd would think if it knew what “good old merry” had up his sleeve?
off to one side, darrel and bleeker were working out. both waved their hands in friendly greeting to merriwell, as he and his swarthy-faced catcher began their preliminary practice.
while passing the balls to his companion, merry was taking note of the work of the gold hillers. it was snappy, and quick, and true, and the way the horsehide flashed around and across the diamond was enough to make the ophirites wonder a bit how that game was going to come out.
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darrel called in his men, and frank sent the ophir players into the field. then began an exhibition which was not calculated to inspire much confidence in the ophir partisans. blunt muffed a throw from the home plate, spink juggled a fly that had been lifted right into his hands, and brad and handy crashed together in trying to smother a low drive, and caused a ridiculous flurry between third base and second. everybody seemed bent on showing just what a poor performer he could be, on occasion, and there were more jeers than cheers while ophir was warming up.
frank was thankful to have the comedy of errors cut short by the umpire, who had produced the little pasteboard box and was shaking the new ball out of it. the backstop was getting into his chest protector and turning his cap, preparatory to putting on the mask. another moment, and frank was in the pitcher’s box and the umpire had tossed him the white sphere. “play ball!” came the command.
