CHAPTER IX.

A DISGRUNTLED PITCHER.

“What seems to be the matter with this pitcher of yours?” Merriwell asked a little later.

“Poor control,” Gardiner answered briefly. “He’s got excellent curves, but he’s wild. Some days he is fine, especially if we have things our own way from the start. But let the other side get a few hits off him to begin with, and he seems to go all to pieces.”

Dick took out his pocketbook, and selecting a bill, handed it to the waiter.

“That’s a bad fault,” he commented. “Curves are no earthly use unless a man can control them. Does he use his head?”

Gardiner hesitated a moment.

“Well--sometimes,” he said slowly. “I hate to knock a man, especially a fellow I don’t like, but you can’t very well help us much unless you know all about him. Morrison’s great trouble is a case of abnormally swelled head. Up to a month ago we had another pitcher we could fall back on. He didn’t have many fancy stunts, but he was steady, and in the long run he made a better record than Morrison. But he had to leave town, and since then Edgar seems to have the idea that he’s the whole team and that we can’t get along without him. He’s a great masher, and when he’s on the slab he spends more time thinking how he can make a hit with the girls in the grand stand than in preventing the batters from making a hit in the box. We’ve had several run-ins on that account, but there’s no reasoning with a fellow like that. I freely confess that, personally, I don’t like him; but I hope that fact hasn’t made me unfair.”

He looked questioningly at Ralph Maxwell.

“It hasn’t,” the latter declared quickly. “You haven’t been hard enough on him. The fellow doesn’t make any pretense at training. There’s hardly a night that he isn’t to be found at Dolan’s Café on Front Street. I don’t mean that he gets jagged, but he certainly drinks and smokes a lot there; and you can’t tell me that a fellow can play good ball when he spends his time that way.”

Dick picked up his change from the silver tray the waiter had just laid in front of him, and they all arose and started for the door.

“You’re up against a hard proposition,” said Merriwell. “It’s always difficult to do anything with a man like that. They usually resent advice and never by any chance follow it. How is your catcher?”

“Fine!” declared Gardiner enthusiastically. “Burgess is a great pal of Morrison, but he’s all to the good. More than once he has pulled Edgar out of a hole and saved the day.”

“A good catcher is worth his weight in gold,” Merriwell said, with a sidelong glance at Buckhart, who appeared deaf.

“Let’s go out this way,” he went on. “I thought we would use the car this afternoon, so I left it at the side entrance.”

As they went down the steps, Maxwell and Garrick started to walk away.

“See you on the field,” the former called back.

“Hold on,” Dick said quickly. “Aren’t you going right over there?”

“Yes; but----”

“Well, come along with us, then,” the Yale man invited, as he slipped in the coil plug. “There’s room enough for everybody, if you don’t mind crowding.”

The two fellows came back and squeezed into the tonneau with Tucker and Bigelow, who had given up his idea of taking a nap. Dick cranked the engine and took his seat at the wheel, Gardiner beside him. The Texan sat on the side of the car with his feet hanging out.

The Field Club was situated in the residential part of town and covered a good deal of ground. Besides the diamond, there was a good nine-hole golf course, excellent tennis courts, and a simple, attractive and well-arranged clubhouse. This last was built at one side of the diamond, so that the club members could enjoy the game from the wide veranda, which completely surrounded the house, quite as well as the spectators in the grand stand.

Under Gardiner’s direction, Dick drove the _Wizard_ through the entrance and up to the veranda, where a number of young fellows in baseball suits were congregated.

“Hello, Glen,” one of them called out, as the party came up the steps. “We’d about given you up. Thought you were lost, or something.”

“It’s about time you showed up,” another said rather sharply. “Practice ought to have begun half an hour ago. I’ve got a date at five o’clock, which I propose to keep.”

He was a tall, dark, rather good-looking fellow, who was evidently quite aware of the fact, and as he spoke his full, red lips were curved in a slight sneer.

Gardiner flushed a little at the other’s tone, but otherwise paid no attention to it.

“I know that, Morrison,” he said pleasantly; “but I guess we can make up the lost time. Fellows, I want you to meet Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale pitcher, who has been so good as to say he’d coach us a little for the game to-morrow.”

A suspicious gleam flashed into Morrison’s eyes as he extended a languid hand.

“Glad to meet you,” he drawled. “Merriwell, did you say? You go to Yale, do you?”

This assumption of ignorance was affectation, pure and simple. The Forest Hills pitcher knew perfectly well who Dick Merriwell was, but he thought it might irritate the Yale man if he pretended never to have heard of him.

It had, however, no such effect.

“Yes, I happen to,” Dick said good-naturedly, as he shook the fellow’s hand, and turned to meet the other men.

“You fellows go ahead and start practice,” Gardiner said, when the introductions were complete. “I’ll slip into my clothes and be with you in half a jiffy.”

He disappeared into the clubhouse, and the others left the veranda and walked out to the diamond. Merriwell was chatting with the catcher, George Burgess, a short, stout heavily built fellow with a good-humored face and small, twinkling eyes.

“Gardiner tells me you’re up against a hard proposition to-morrow,” the Yale man remarked.

“Yes, the mine boys are a tough crowd to beat,” Burgess returned. “But I guess we can do it.”

He slipped his mask on and began to buckle his chest protector.

“Let’s see how your wing is to-day, Edgar,” he called. “One of you fellows stand up here and be struck out. You’re all ready, Art. Come ahead.”

Arthur Dean, a well-built, muscular fellow who played third, picked up a bat and walked over to the plate.

Morrison went into the pitcher’s box, a sullen look on his face.

“I like that fellow Merriwell’s nerve, butting in this way,” he muttered. “I suppose that fresh Gardiner thinks I need coaching. Well, he won’t show me very much.”

He tried an outshoot, and was chagrined when it missed the pan by a good foot and Burgess had to stir himself to get it.

“Wild, Morrie--wild,” the stout fellow said, as he tossed the ball back.

Morrison bit his lips. The next ball was high. It held no speed, but it passed so far above Dean’s head that Burgess was forced to stretch his arms at full length in order to pull it down.

He shook his head as he snapped it back.

Then the pitcher sent a speedy one straight over the pan, and Dean cracked out a clean single toward right field.

Gardiner appeared in time to see this performance, and, though he said nothing, his face wore an anxious frown.

“I think I’ll get out where I can see his delivery better,” Dick said, as the captain approached.

“I wish you would,” Gardiner returned in a low voice. “He’s pretty wild, isn’t he?”

Merriwell nodded and walked out on the diamond, taking a position behind Morrison, who had just received the ball from the field.

“Now, Reddy, get up to the plate and see what you can do,” Gardiner directed. “See if you can’t strike him out, Morrie.”

“He can’t do it,” grinned Maxwell, taking a firm grip on his bat. “Bet you can’t fan me, Edgar, old boy.”

Morrison flushed a little as he toed the plate, his eyes fixed on Burgess.

The catcher signaled for an incurve, and the next moment Maxwell dodged back to avoid being hit by the ball.

“I don’t want a present of the base, thank you,” he laughed. “Try again, Morrie.”

Morrison scowled and whipped a swift shoot, which was entirely too high. The following two balls were equally wild, and the red-headed chap tossed his bat to the ground with a grin.

“Told you that you couldn’t,” he said triumphantly.

The lanky Garrick took his place, and, after giving him three balls, the pitcher sent one straight over the pan, which Garrick promptly swung at and laced out a hot two-bagger.

“What’s the matter with you, Morrison?” Gardiner said sharply. “What’s the good of curves if you can’t get them over? You’ve got to take a brace pretty soon, or we might as well make the Mispahs a present of the game.”

The pitcher’s face darkened and he controlled himself with an effort.

“There’s no use killing yourself at practice,” he said, with affected nonchalance. “I’ll be all right in the game.”

“I shouldn’t like to bank on it,” Gardiner retorted, with some heat. “I could mention a few games in which you were decidedly _not_ all right. The trouble with you is that half the time your mind isn’t on what you’re doing. A fellow can’t pitch and think about something else at the same time.”

Morrison flushed hotly.

“You don’t say so!” he sneered. “Perhaps you’d like your Yale friend to show me how it’s done. That’s what you brought him here for, isn’t it?”

Gardiner’s chin squared.

“I asked him here to coach us all,” he said quietly. “So far, you seem to be the one to need it the most.”

Morrison’s eyes flashed and he wheeled suddenly and faced Dick, who was standing behind him.

“Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give us an exhibition of your skill,” he said ironically, in a voice which trembled with suppressed anger. “You pitch, I believe?”

“Occasionally,” Merriwell returned carelessly; “but I doubt whether I can be of any assistance to you. Your curves and speed seem to be all right. A man can only acquire good control by constant practice and unremitting attention to the game.”

The ball came bounding across the diamond from the field, and leaning over, Morrison scooped it up and tossed it to the Yale man.

“Sounds good,” he sneered. “Just show us a few.”

He folded his arms, an ugly look on his face, and stepped back, while Dick took off his coat and rolled up his right sleeve, exposing an arm of such perfect development that even the man whose place he had taken could not suppress a feeling of envious admiration.

Gardiner picked up a bat and stepped to the plate; the catcher crouched and gave a signal, which Dick recognized as the call for a drop. As the ball left Merriwell’s fingers, it seemed that it would pass above the first baseman’s shoulders. Too late the latter saw it take a sudden downward shoot and plunk into the catcher’s big mitt.

“Gee! that’s a dandy,” Gardiner exclaimed, as Burgess tossed the ball back.

The next one was a beautiful outcurve which cut the corner of the plate, though the batter had not thought it possible for the ball to pass over any part of the pan. He planted his feet firmly, a little frown on his face. Though he knew Merriwell was giving Morrison an object lesson, he did not propose to be fanned by the Yale man if he could help it.

Dick placed his feet and rose on his toes for a moment. Backward he swung, poised upon one pin, his left foot lifted high above the ground. Forward he threw his body with a broad, sharp swing of his arm, and the ball came sizzling over the inside corner of the rubber, Gardiner missing cleanly.

A murmur of astonishment and admiration went up from the little group which stood near the plate. To have their heaviest hitter struck out by the first three balls pitched was something the members of the Forest Hills nine had never expected to see. Gardiner threw down his bat with a little grimace of disgust.

“That’s some pitching,” he said. “I haven’t had that happen to me in many moons. Now, Edgar, suppose you see what you can do.”

But Morrison was walking rapidly toward him from the pitcher’s box, his hands clenched and his face dark.

“You can’t make a monkey out of me,” he snarled. “I’m through.”

Gardiner looked at him in amazement.

“Do you mean you won’t pitch to-morrow?” he asked.

“Neither to-morrow nor any other day,” snapped Morrison. “Nothing would hire me to pitch on this team after the dirty trick you’ve played bringing a fellow in to make a show of me. Think I’m a fool?”

Gardiner flushed hotly.

“Nobody could make a fool of you,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis. “You seem to have been born that way.”

The angry man disdained any reply.

“Any of my friends will have to choose now between Gardiner and me,” he went on furiously. “If they prefer playing on his team, well and good; but at that moment they cease to be my friends. Understand?”

He cast a significant glance at George Burgess, and, turning on his heel, walked rapidly toward the clubhouse.

Burgess hesitated for an instant and, with a shrug of his shoulders, slowly unbuckled his chest protector and threw it on the ground, together with his mask and mitt. Then he followed Morrison.

The flush had died out of Gardiner’s face, leaving it a little pale. His eyes traveled slowly over the faces of the remaining men.

“Well,” he said quietly, “any more?”

Unconsciously, perhaps, he looked at Roland Hewett, the centre fielder, a slim, fastidious fellow with thin, blond hair and pale blue eyes, whom he knew was another friend of the deserting pitcher. There was a worried, undecided look on his weak face.

“I don’t know----” he stammered. “I--I believe I’ll go and see if he really meant what he said.”

Then he, too, left the group on the diamond and presently disappeared into the clubhouse.

For a moment no one spoke. Then Reddy Maxwell broke the silence.

“Well, fellows,” he said, with forced cheerfulness, “I should say that the team is better off without a bunch that will desert it at a time like this.”

“But how the deuce are we going to fill their places?” Irving Renworth, the right fielder, asked apprehensively.

“By Jove, fellows. I’m sorry!” Gardiner broke in contritely. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have talked that way to Morrison, knowing how touchy he is.”

“Oh, cut that, Glen,” Maxwell said quickly. “It would take a wooden man to stand Morrie’s nasty, sneering way without answering back. I’m glad he’s gone, though I am surprised at Burgess backing him up.”

“Yes, don’t worry, Glen,” Garrick said in his deliberate manner. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ll have to make the best of it, and look around for some one else.”

The captain ran his fingers despairingly through his thick brown hair.

“We can fill Hewett’s place all right, and we might find a catcher,” he groaned. “But how in the world do you expect to get hold of a pitcher in less than twenty-four hours, when I’ve tried in vain to do that very thing ever since Smith left us a month ago?”

A hand clapped him on the back, and the big Texan’s hearty voice sounded in his ears.

“Brace up, bucko! You don’t seem to be wise to the fact that you’ve got a battery complete right on the ground; and, in the field, Tucker can knock spots out of that quitter. You hear me gently warble!”

Gardiner turned swiftly as though he could scarcely believe his senses.

“What?” he exclaimed. “You mean that you would----”

“That’s sure what I’m trying to express,” Buckhart grinned. “Seeing as we’re someways responsible for that bunch going on strike, it’ll only square things up if we take their places. How about it, pard?”

“Of course, we’ll play,” Dick said quickly, “if they want us to.”

A sudden smile flashed into the first baseman’s face.

“Want you!” he cried. “Well, I guess yes! Only I should never have dared suggest such a thing. Talk about luck! Why, this is the best thing that could have happened. We’ll give the mine boys the surprise of their lives, and a minute ago I was thinking of throwing up the game. Gee! I can hardly believe it’s true.”

Dick looked at his watch.

“We’ve got a couple of hours yet which we may as well put in practicing a little, don’t you think?” he remarked. “That is, if you can supply us with togs.”

“Sure thing,” Gardiner returned. “Come in to the house and I’ll fit you fellows out.”

It was amazing how quickly the anxious, worried looks on the faces of the Forest Hills boys were replaced by grins of joy, as they realized their good luck. A few minutes later they were dashing about the field after flies, scooping up hot liners, or taking turns at the bat with an enthusiasm and vim which was a marked contrast to the demeanor they had displayed earlier in the afternoon.

Merriwell became so interested in the practice that he delayed longer than he had intended. The result was that he had barely time for a hasty shower in the dressing rooms of the club, which was followed by a dash back to the hotel where he swallowed his dinner at a speed which was ruinous to his digestion. Even at that, it lacked only five minutes of seven when the turned into the drive and stopped the _Wizard_ at the entrance of Orren Fairchilds’ costly and beautiful residence, in the most exclusive section of Forest Hills.

“Doesn’t look much like the home of a man who cares for nothing but business and baseball,” he thought, as he ran up the marble steps and pushed the electric button.

The door was promptly opened by an impressive butler, who ushered the Yale man into the drawing room.

“Mr. Fairchilds is at dinner,” he announced, “but he will be through directly.”

Dick took out the card on which Roger Clingwood had written simply, “Introducing Richard Merriwell, of Yale,” and handed it to the man.

“Will you give this to him when he has finished,” he requested.

“Very good, sir,” returned the butler. “Will you be seated, sir.”

He took the card and disappeared, while Merriwell dropped into a chair and glanced around the great room, which was furnished richly, but in perfect taste.

The next moment some curtains at the other end were thrust violently aside and a man entered hurriedly.

“Dick Merriwell, as I live!” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched hand. “You haven’t changed a particle since I saw you twirl years ago at New Haven. Jove, that was a game! My boy, I’m very glad to meet you.”

He was short and slim, with a brisk manner and springy walk. His thin hair and heavier moustache were slightly tinged with gray; nevertheless he certainly was not much over thirty-seven or eight, and with his healthy brown skin and alert, twinkling brown eyes, he did not appear even that. Dick took an instant liking for him as he shook his hand heartily.

“I hope I haven’t interrupted your dinner,” he said. “They told me you had it early.”

“Not at all, not at all,” returned the mine owner briskly. “I do have it early. I always make a point of attending the evening practice of my team. Have you seen Clingwood lately? I haven’t laid eyes on him in over a year. Does he still play golf?”

Merriwell smiled at the half-contemptuous tone in which he brought out the last word.

“Yes, he’s an enthusiast. Says there is no game like it.”

“Bah!” snorted Fairchilds. “An old woman’s game. That’s the only fault I have to find with Clingwood--he doesn’t like baseball. How any sane, healthy man can stand up and say he isn’t interested in the greatest game on earth--the only game, to my mind, that’s worth the time and trouble that’s spent on it--I can’t understand.”

“I hear you’ve got a great team up at the mine,” Dick remarked.

The little man’s eyes sparkled.

“We have--a dandy team,” he said enthusiastically. “They’ve wiped up the diamond with everything they’ve met this year, and to-morrow I expect them to win the game of the season with the Field Club nine. Of course, you’ll be on hand for that?”

Merriwell nodded with a smile. He expected to be very much on hand.

“Say, why can’t you come up to the field with me now and watch the boys practice?” the mine owner said suddenly. “You’ll see some work that will surprise you, considering that six months ago the boys knew very little about the game. Come along; my car’s waiting outside now.”

He rose quickly to his feet.

“I think I’d better not, Mr. Fairchilds,” Dick returned quietly, as he faced him. “You see, I’ve promised to pitch for the Forest Hills team to-morrow.”

The sharp little eyes of the older man fairly bulged out with surprise.

“You’ve what?” he exclaimed.

“I’ve promised to pitch for the Field Club fellows,” the Yale man smiled. “Morrison, their pitcher, and his friend, George Burgess, left the team in a huff this afternoon. Gardiner asked me to come out and give Morrison a few points, and the fellow, getting mad at what he was pleased to call my interference, quit, taking the catcher with him. Naturally, having been, in a way, responsible, I volunteered to take his place, and my chum will catch.”

The mine owner dropped back upon his chair.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he exclaimed.

“I hope you don’t disapprove,” Dick said quickly.

“Disapprove! No, of course not. It will make the game all the more interesting. I never did like that fellow, Morrison, and he can’t pitch for sour apples. But I must get up and tell the boys about this. We’ll have to get in all the practice we can to-night. I don’t feel quite so cocksure of winning as I did a few moments ago.”

He stood up quickly and started for the door, the Yale man at his side. In the hall he took his hat from the butler, and then stopped suddenly and looked at Dick.

“I reckon my wife must be right,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “She says I haven’t got an idea in my head but baseball. Here I’m running off without ever asking you what I could do for you. You must have had a reason for coming.”

Merriwell smiled.

“I did have a favor to ask,” he said. “I am very anxious to go through the mine with three friends, if it’s possible.”

“Why, certainly,” the older man returned briskly. “Delighted to have you. Come up to the offices to-morrow about nine, and you’ll find me there. Will that time suit you?”

“Perfectly,” Dick answered. “And I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time to-night.”

The mine owner laughed.

“I’m right glad you did,” he said, as they went down the steps. “You’ve given me some valuable information.”

He paused and looked at Dick shrewdly.

“I only wish I’d seen you pitch inside of two years. I expect you’ve developed a lot of new tricks in that time.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Yale man smiled.

Orren Fairchilds sprang into a big gray car which stood near the steps, while Dick hurried forward to get the _Wizard_ out of the way. He sprang into his seat and started the engine, which was still warm, and as he did so, he heard the voice of the older man behind him.

“Just the same, my boy, don’t think you’ve got a cinch, to-morrow. Good night.”

“Good night,” Merriwell called back.

The _Wizard_ shot down the drive and into the street, with the gray car close behind. Dick waved his hand in response to a salute from the other man, who turned in the opposite direction and quickly disappeared. Merriwell drove slowly back toward the hotel.

He was much taken with the enthusiastic mine owner, whose simple, straightforward manner was a pleasant contrast to the airs affected by some wealthy men he had met.

“You’d never imagine, to look at him, that he was burdened with overmuch coin,” the Yale man thought. “Yet Gardiner says that he and his brother are sole owners of the mine, and must have four or five million a piece. He certainly is a baseball crank, and yet I should think it would be great fun, if a fellow had plenty of money, to see how good a team you could make out of ordinary material.”

The Fairchilds’ place was situated at the extreme limits of the city, and, as Merriwell passed through the residential section, he drove slowly in order to observe some of the houses and well-kept grounds along the street.

Suddenly he heard a stifled cry from the sidewalk, causing him to swerve in toward the curb and slow down to a crawl. The next moment he saw a young girl trying to free herself from the grasp of a man, and instantly he jammed on the brake and sprang out of the car.

“Let me go!” cried the girl. “Take your hands off me!”

Her face was flushed and her eyes wide with fright as she strove to shake the fellow’s hand from her arm. Then she caught sight of Dick.

“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly. “I’m so frightened. Won’t you please make him go away.”

Almost before the words were out of her mouth, the Yale man sprang forward and, catching the man’s wrist in a grip of iron, tore it from the girl’s arm and sent him reeling against the fence.

Then, to his amazement, he recognized the scowling face of Edgar Morrison, the Field Club pitcher.

“Curse you!” snarled the fellow, advancing with a threatening gesture. “Butting in again, are you? I’ll teach you to mind your own business!”

Dick laughed lightly.

“Come right along.” he said quietly. “I’m always ready to learn, even from a cur like you.”

With a furious oath, Morrison lunged forward and attempted to hit Merriwell; but his blow was parried, and he received a return punch that sent him reeling.

Uttering a frightened cry, the girl turned and fled down the street.

Morrison was back at Dick in an instant, fairly foaming with rage. He had quite a reputation in Forest Hills as a fist-fighter, and when he kept his head he could put up a good, scientific scrap. The Yale man found no difficulty, however, in parrying his furious, savage lunges, and presently he got in a straight uppercut on the fellow’s chin which sent him to the ground with a crash.

Dick stood over the man, waiting for him to rise.

“Anything more you’d like to teach me?” he asked quietly, as Morrison staggered to his feet and stood swaying, one hand lifted to his chin.

For a moment the other did not speak. Though his ardor for fighting seemed to have cooled considerably, his rage was apparently unabated, and mingled with it there was a look of unutterable hate in the fierce dark eyes, which were fixed on the contemptuous face of the Yale man.

“Not here--not now,” he muttered. “But I’ll teach you a lesson some day that you won’t forget in a hurry, curse you! I’ll get even with you yet.”

With a shrug of his shoulder, Dick walked over to the car.

“You’ll have to be quick about it,” he said, as he took his seat at the wheel. “I don’t propose spending much more time in this town of yours.”

He started to let in the clutch, and then suddenly half turned in his seat, looking Morrison straight in the eyes.

“One thing more,” he said in a low, cold tone, which held a decidedly threatening undercurrent. “If I catch you annoying that girl again, or any other woman, I’ll take great pleasure handing you another bunch of fives. Understand?”