colonel hawtrey was flying around the gold hill section of the stand, now and then rising in his seat to cheer or to hand a little good-natured raillery to his friend, mr. bradlaugh.
“thought you had some ball players over here, bradlaugh,” he shouted, while runs were crossing the pan for gold hill.
“so did i,” laughed the general manager. “the game’s young yet, colonel. wait till we’re a little farther along.”
“you fielders have got to take a brace,” merry was saying to some of his teammates. “clancy, i’m surprised at you! brad, i wonder how your father enjoyed that play of yours? now, then, all get together and do something.”
brad, who was first at bat, tried hard to retrieve himself. perhaps he tried too hard, for overanxiety is worse than not being anxious enough. yet, be that as it may, his little pop-up was bagged neatly by dart, and brad turned from the path to first and made for the bench.
then blunt tried for a hit, but darrel was pitching great ball, and nothing happened. handy followed, and managed to get to first but spink spoiled all his chances by getting a grounder to rylman and being thrown out at first.
bleeker was up again in the first half of the third. frank had made up his mind, by then, that he and the backstop would have to do most of the work, and he was pitching ball that made the fans open their eyes. he did not allow a man to reach first, but struck them out as fast as they came to the plate.
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in this round, which added a goose egg to the gold hill score, ellis darrel was included.
reckless, in the last half of the third, aroused ophir hopes by dropping the ball into left field. lenaway made a grand effort to get under it, but it slipped over the ends of his fingers.
“now, joe,” begged blunt, as the catcher picked out his bat, “bring reckless in, and come in yourself.”
the backstop smiled genially, and proceeded to sacrifice reckless to second. he almost got to first on the bunt, but was called out by the umpire.
“now, do your prettiest, clan,” urged merry. “you’ll never have a better chance to do something.”
“watch me, that’s all,” grinned the red-headed chap. “here’s where i make up for some of my errors.”
then an awful thing happened. clancy hit a long fly. the coacher thought the fielder couldn’t possibly get it, and started reckless to third. but the fielder, making a magnificent running catch, took the ball in out of the wet and whipped it to second.
that was all; and the best chance ophir had yet had to score was lost. the gold hillers began to sing, and some of the more demonstrative marched in a procession around the grand stand, using their megaphones to “rub it into” the ophirites.
the score remained two to nothing. by magnificent work, merriwell and his swarthy backstop continued adding ciphers to the gold hill score, but they were not able to get any runs for themselves.
“something’s bound to happen yet, colonel,” said mr. bradlaugh, in the second half of the eighth. “i shouldn’t wonder if the balloon would go up about here.”
“the score would have been twenty to nothing,” declared colonel hawtrey, “if merriwell and that mexican
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catcher hadn’t stood like a wall between our boys and first. by jove! i never saw steadier or more clear-headed work, and right in the face of the worst support i ever heard of. you can thank your battery, bradlaugh, for getting off easy this afternoon.”
“perhaps,” answered the general manager hopefully, “we’ll be able to thank our battery for more than that.”
“i can admire your grit, anyhow,” laughed hawtrey, “even if i can’t applaud your judgment. you are right about one thing, though, bradlaugh: a game is never finished until the last man is out.”
the gold hillers, who had hoped to roll up a big score, were now contenting themselves with merely holding their opponents. two runs would be enough. they would win one of the hardest games ever contested on the ophir diamond.
“we’ve got to have three tallies, fellows,” was the word frank was circulating among his men. “all together, now! we’ve fooled with these gold hill chaps long enough.”
frank was cheerful, even sanguine. even when darrel fanned the first three men to come to bat, merriwell continued to cheer up his discouraged teammates.
“we’re going to win,” said he confidently. “i’ve got a hunch to that effect.”
“pretty soon it will be too late to start,” returned blunt gloomily.
“it’s never too late to start, barzy, so long as the under dog has a chance to bat.”
“well, we’ve only got one more chance.”
“that will be enough—providing we improve it.”
during the first half of the ninth, gold hill came within a hair’s breadth of getting another run. a throw to the plate, relayed to merriwell and passed to the backstop,
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who made a marvelous catch and tagged out the runner, was all that prevented the score from coming in.
“who made that throw from deep center?” shouted colonel hawtrey, rising in his seat.
“ballard, merriwell’s chum,” some one replied.
“bravo, ballard!” cheered the colonel. “now you’re playing ball! and you mexican boy, down there!”
the ophir catcher, with a queer movement, turned and looked up at the colonel.
“that was fine, do you hear?” went on the colonel enthusiastically. “i must shake hands with you for that.”
the backstop turned on his heel and walked to the benches with bowed head.
“it’s about over, bradlaugh,” said the colonel, lifting his voice high in order to be heard through the buzz of conversation that surrounded him. “so far as results are concerned, we could just as well leave now.”
“don’t be in a rush,” answered mr. bradlaugh. “i still think something is going to happen that will turn the tide in our favor.”
“hope springs perennial in the breast of the baseball fan,” laughed hawtrey.
“merriwell gets to bat in the last half. he’ll do something.”
“how do you figure that?” demanded hawtrey. “spink is first up, then reckless, then mexican joe, then clancy. merriwell comes after that. what chance has merriwell got to do any stickwork? three will fan before his turn at the plate—darrel will look out for that.”
“maybe darrel will slip up in his calculations,” said the general manager doggedly.
with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, mr. bradlaugh sat in growing hopelessness while spink and reckless fanned. it looked as though it was all over. many
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of the gold hillers in the automobiles began to toot their horns triumphantly, and to prepare to leave. those in the grand stand and on the bleachers were already congratulating each other.
with two out, the swarthy backstop was leading the forlorn hope. what could he accomplish, in the face of defeat that seemed absolutely certain?
there was nothing about the catcher, as he picked up his club and stepped to the plate, which suggested that he was either nervous or discouraged. he was there to do his best, and thoughts of failure did not seem to bother him in the least.
no one, not even the ophirites, had much to say to the backstop. it seemed, to almost every one except merriwell and the catcher, as though the game was irretrievably lost. merry and the catcher, however, were still hoping against hope.
darrel, perhaps too confident of victory, allowed a ball to cross the plate just about where the catcher wanted it. with a crack that sounded like the report of a rifle he lifted the horsehide far out between left and center.
the smack of bat against ball at once claimed the attention of the crowd.
those who were on the point of leaving stood in their tracks and faced around to follow proceedings on the diamond.
“it’s only a flurry,” the gold hillers said to each other. “there are two out, and not a ghost of a chance for ophir tying the score. they’re dying hard, though.”
stark, in center field, managed to pick up the ball and to fling it in. he was so quick with it that the catcher was prevented from making a try for third.
clancy was the next batter. his flagging hopes had been revived. after him came merriwell. if clancy
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could only make good use of the swatstick, a whole chain of gorgeous possibilities would flash through the murky skies that encompassed ophir.
“keep your nerve, clan,” called merry. “remember, it’s all up to you. lace it out, old chap. not that way,” he added, with a laugh, as the nervous clancy swung at the sphere and missed.
clancy ground his teeth, and into his wildly beating heart there entered the determination to do or die.
again darrel sent the ball at him. the bat moved a little in his hands, but did not come down.
“he had a notion!” some one yelled, as the umpire called a ball. “coax him again, darrel. he can’t get a hit!”
once more darrel “wound up,” and let the ball go. this time, to the dismay of the ophirites, clancy cracked it out. it sped hotly past the pitcher, and was finally scooped up by short.
the complexion of affairs had changed. the backstop was on third, and clancy was hugging first. handy went down to the coaching line. merriwell, a smile on his face, stepped to the plate.
“all i want is a good one, curly,” said he, “and we’ll sew up the game right here.”
a wild commotion broke out among the spectators. those who had started to leave sat down again, and some who had left crowded back into the grand stand.
was it possible, every onlooker was asking himself, that ophir could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in such a spectacular manner?
merriwell was at the bat. here was the point that aroused the wildest fears of gold hill, and the fondest hopes of ophir.
