CHAPTER XII.

THE GAME BEGINS.

A steady stream of baseball fans poured into the Field Club grounds. It was Saturday; there was not a cloud in the sky, and it seemed as though every man and boy, as well as the greater part of the women, of Forest Hills had made up their minds to witness the great game.

In perfect equality clerks rubbed elbows with their “bosses.” Newsboys, with bare feet and dirty faces, shouted witticisms over the shoulders of bankers and merchants. Miners, in their rough working clothes, thronged the field in great numbers and kept up a continuous roar for their team. Automobiles had been barred from the grounds that afternoon, but an endless string of them lined the street outside.

The game was scheduled for three-thirty. At two the grand stand was crowded and the bleachers filled to overflowing. An hour later there was not a seat to be had for love or money; men were scattered all around the diamond, wherever they could find a place to stand, and a solid mass of humanity lined the fence back of the field. The wide veranda of the clubhouse was jammed to the very rail with wives and daughters of the members, in their bright summer dresses, whose gay chatter added a lighter note to ceaseless hum of many voices.

As the hour struck the mine boys took the field for fifteen minutes of short, snappy practice. As they did so a great roar went up from the bleachers, which continued long and loud until stilled by the upraised hand of Orren Fairchilds, who, despite his injury of that morning, seemed to be as active as any man on the field.

There was an anxious look on Gardiner’s face as he came over to where Dick was warming up.

“How’s the arm, old fellow?” he asked.

“Left’s all right, but I’m afraid there’s nothing doing with the other,” Merriwell answered. “I can toss a couple with it, but that’s the limit. Begins to pain right away.”

“Think you can pitch nine innings with your left?” Gardiner inquired.

The Yale man smiled.

“I’ll have to,” he said quietly. “What troubles me more is swinging a bat. I can’t put any strength into it. Guess I won’t be much use to you in the hitting line.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the curly haired fellow said quickly. “If you can only pitch through the game the rest of us will try and look after the batting. I reckon it’s time for us to take the field.”

As the Field Club team took the places of their opponents in the field, there was a good deal of cheering and stamping from the grand stand, but a noticeable silence from the occupants of the bleachers. Evidently the miners did not propose to waste their breath on the opposing nine.

With the hand on the big clock in the clubhouse tower creeping toward the half hour, the fans began to grow impatient. There was much shuffling of feet, catcalls and shrill whistles arose and mingled with them, cries of:

“Get a move on!”

“Get busy!”

“Play ball!”

At exactly three-thirty, the fellows raced in from the field, and the two captains got together with the umpires for the toss. The Field Club men won, and promptly took the field again amidst a roar of approval from the crowd.

The first man up was Jimmy Rooney, the Mispah catcher, a short, stocky, muscular fellow, with reddish hair and a mass of freckles. As he walked to the plate a cheer went up from the bleachers, which was quickly stilled as the umpire tore off the wrappings from a ball and tossed it to Dick.

“Play ball!” he called.

The Yale man caught it in his left hand and toed the rubber. Buckhart crouched and gave the signal for an outcurve, and the next moment the ball left Merriwell’s hand.

“Ball one!” yelled the umpire.

The next one was also wild.

“Don’t let him fool you, Jim,” advised the mine owner. “Make him put it over.”

A moment later Merriwell got the inside corner of the plate, and Rooney failed to swing.

“Strike!” barked the umpire, with an upward motion of his right hand.

The red-headed catcher squared himself and dug his toes into the ground. He wouldn’t let another good one get by.

Merriwell took the signal for a drop. He started the ball high, but it dropped sharply and swiftly and Rooney decided to strike. Lunging at it, he hit it on the upper side of his bat and popped it high above the infield.

It was an easy fly and Reddy Maxwell got under it confidently. Perhaps he was too confident. At all events, he caught it and--dropped it.

Despite the fact that it seemed a sure out, Rooney was racing toward first as hard as he could go, and by the time Maxwell snatched up the ball and lined it to Gardiner, the miner had touched the bag.

Maxwell’s face was crimson as he trotted back to position.

“Hard luck, old fellow,” Dick said quietly.

“Blamed rotten, you mean,” Reddy retorted. “I ought to be kicked all over the place.”

Herman Glathe, a tall, blond German, came to the bat; and, at the first delivery, Rooney, who had taken a good lead off the cushion, went down the line toward second like a race horse.

It almost seemed as though Buckhart, having caught the ball, waited an instant for Maxwell to cover the sack. Then he sent the horsehide sphere whistling straight as a bullet into the hands of the red-haired shortstop, who bent a little forward to receive it and jabbed it on to Rooney as the latter slid.

“Out at second!” announced the umpire.

But his decision was almost drowned in the excited shriek which went up from the clubhouse veranda.

“Good boy!” Dick murmured, as he caught the ball.

The next moment Glathe had lined out a clean single into the outfield, and he reached the initial sack amidst a roar of applause from the bleachers.

As though to atone for this, Dick teased Sam Allen, the Mispah second baseman, into striking at the first two balls pitched. Then followed a couple of wide ones, but Sam refused to be further beguiled. At last he landed on what he thought was a good one, and lifted a high foul back of the pan, away near the grand stand.

Like a flash Buckhart snapped off his cage and perked his head up to get its bearings. Then he spread himself and just managed to smother the ball within five feet of the front line of spectators, who shrieked a frenzied approval.

“Two gone, pard,” he grinned, as he lined the ball out to Dick. “See if you can’t fan this Adonis.”

Bill McDonough was swaggering to the plate with a smile of confidence on his ugly face, and, as Merriwell watched him through narrowed lids, he made up his mind to strike him out if he could.

He began on the miner with a jump ball. It shot upward and McDonough, who had felt certain of hitting it, missed cleanly, nearly throwing himself down with the violence of his swing.

“That’s pitching, pard,” laughed the Texan, as the sphere buried itself in the pocket of his mitt. “That’s the kind.”

The burly giant scowled a little as he stamped his spikes into the ground and squared himself, crouching and leaning a bit backward, with his weight on his right foot.

Merriwell shifted the ball in his fingers and took plenty of time. Suddenly he pitched, and the sphere came humming over with speed that almost made the air smoke.

Again McDonough missed.

A cheer went up from the crowd.

Dick felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer, for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to waste one or two.

He glanced around at his backers, his foot on the slab. When he turned, he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object, if possible, to catch the miner unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked into Buckhart’s glove.

“Out!” shouted the umpire.

But the word was not heard in the tremendous roar which went up from the grand stand.

“Bully work, old fellow!” Glen Gardiner said enthusiastically, as they trotted in from the field. “You shut them out beautifully. Shoulder all right?”

“Fine!” Dick returned.

“Well, we’ll see if we can’t get a run or two,” the curly haired captain went on, as he selected a bat. “Nothing like getting a good start.”

But his hopes were soon shattered.

McDonough proved something of a surprise to the Yale men as they watched his work from the bench. He was not at all the type of man of which good pitchers are usually made. Huge almost to unwieldiness, with muscles sticking out like great cords, at first sight he seemed to lack the supple, flexible, swiftness so necessary to good work in the box. Neither did his rough, brutal face give any indication of mental agility and well-developed brain power, without which no twirler can succeed.

In spite of all this, however, he did astonishingly well. His chief reliance was a swift straight ball which started high and ended with a sharp drop. Besides this he was the master of a few good curves. But what surprised Merriwell was his amazing headwork. He seemed almost to read the mind of the man at the bat, and, by some marvelous intuition, to give him just the sort of ball he was not expecting.

Two strikes were called on Gardiner, who then popped an easy fly to the infield and was caught out.

Reddy Maxwell promptly fanned, to the tumultuous enjoyment of the mine crowd on the bleachers.

Tucker managed to bang a hot liner past second and got to first by the skin of his teeth. Urged by Gardiner, who was coaching, he danced off the cushion and, with the first ball pitched to Arthur Dean, he scudded down the line like a streak of greased lightning. Rooney made a perfect throw to second; but Allen dropped the ball, and Tommy, sliding, was safe.

It was a wasted effort, for Dean fanned, and the Forest Hills boys took the field again.

“That’s the biggest surprise I ever had,” Dick said, as he sprang up from the bench. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Wouldn’t have given ten cents for him that many minutes ago,” growled Buckhart, buckling his chest protector with a jerk. “He’s sure been well trained.”

Max Unger, right field, started the inning with a high fly between short and third, which Garland misjudged, giving Unger plenty of time to jog to first. He was followed by Foy, the miner’s third baseman, who lined a red hot single into the outfield.

Hodgson, shortstop, knocked a foul back of first, which Gardiner gathered in; and Hall, the Mispah first baseman, fanned in short order.

At second, Unger had been inclined at first to lead off pretty well, but two or three sudden throws from Merriwell, prompted by Buckhart’s signals warned him to stick close to the hassock.

With two men out and two on bases, Mike Slavinsky, a stalwart Pole, came to the bat.

“Now, Slavvy, take it easy,” admonished the mine owner. “Don’t try to knock the cover off the ball. Just a nice little single. Rooney comes next, you know.”

The big fellow grinned a little as he squared himself at the plate. But in spite of this warning, he swung at the first ball with such force that he turned halfway around.

“Easy now,” cautioned Fairchilds--“take it easy.”

Then Slavvy calmed down, let two coaxers go by, and hit the next ball a smash which sent it across the infield. Stan Garrick forked at it, but the sphere was too hot to hold, and he dropped it. While he was seeking to recover it, Unger made third, Foy landed on second, and Slavvy was too well down to first to be caught.

As Rooney advanced to the bat the Forest Hills infielders crept up into the diamond. If the miner played the game he would certainly try for a bunt, and they balanced themselves on their toes, ready to go after it if the fellow succeeded in laying one down.

For some unknown reason he did not try. Instead, he duplicated his high fly of the inning before, except that this time there was more muscle behind it and the ball went sailing into the outfield.

Buck Garland got under it easily and waited confidently for it to drop. To his intense dismay and everlasting shame, he repeated Reddy Maxwell’s error, but with far graver results.

The men on bases were off like streaks of greased lightning, and, by the time Garland had secured the ball and lined it to third, Unger had crossed the plate and Foy was halfway down from third.

To cap the climax he made a high throw which Dean had to jump for. He succeeded in stopping the ball, but ere it reached Buckhart’s eager, outstretched hands, the Irish boy had made a beautiful slide and his finger tips touched the plate.

A deafening roar went up from the bleachers, augmented by the enthusiasm of the men in the grand stand, and for five minutes the field echoed with the frantic cheering.

Glen Gardiner was sick at heart at this display of errors and the thought that their opponents had secured a lead of two runs. He looked desperately at Merriwell, who stood calmly waiting for the next batter to face him. With two men on bases, there was no telling where the mine boys would stop unless the Yale man checked them at once.

Dick seemed to be of the same mind, for he proceeded to fan Glathe in very short order.

“By Jove, this is fierce!” Gardiner exclaimed, as his men gathered around the bench. “We’ve got to brace up. What in the world got into you, Buck, to do a thing like that?”

Garland shook his head in despair.

“I don’t know, Glen,” he said, with a sickly grin. “It was awful. I ought to be kicked off the nine. I expect I’ve lost the game.”

“Nonsense!” Merriwell said quickly, before the Forest Hills’ captain could reply. “Don’t say a game is lost before the third man is out in the last inning. Don’t even think it, for just as sure as you do, you begin to lose heart and, whether you realize it or not, you slump. You don’t make the effort--it doesn’t seem worth while. A game was never lost for a certainty in the second inning, boys. What if they have a lead of two runs? That’s nothing. Two runs are easily made up--and more. Make up your minds that we’re going to win this game. We must win it, and we shall.”

There was something magnetic in the Yale man’s manner--something inspiring in his quiet, calm assurance, which seemed to put heart into the discouraged fellows, causing their eyes to brighten and their shoulders to square instinctively. The usually deliberate Stan Garrick snatched up a bat and advanced to the plate with the determination to start off with a hit.

“I must hit it!” he whispered to himself. “I must, and I will.”

He was altogether too anxious to hit, and somehow, McDonough seemed to divine this, for the miner pulled him with the first two balls handed up, neither of which Stan touched.

“You’ve got him, Bill,” chirped Orren Fairchilds, who stood a little to one side of the plate. “Keep it up.”

“Look out for those wide ones, Stan,” cautioned Gardiner.

Garrick knew he had been fooled into striking at what must have been balls, and he resolved to use better judgment. It seemed likely that, having deceived him in such a manner, McDonough would still seek to lure him into biting at the bad ones, and he resolved not to repeat the error.

The burly Mispah pitcher took his time. Dick was standing beside the mine owner, for it was his turn next at the bat, and suddenly he caught the flash of McDonough’s eye as it was turned in his direction.

It was the briefest possible glance, for the next instant the miner whipped one over the inside corner of the plate with all the speed he could command.

Too late Garrick saw that the ball might be good. He could not get his bat around to meet it, and therefore let it pass, hoping the umpire would call it a ball.

“You’re out!” came sharply from the umpire.

Garrick stepped back and tossed his bat on the ground.

“Too bad, Stan,” Dick said, as he came forward to take his place.

“Take it easy, Merriwell,” Gardiner advised, in a low tone. “It’s better to let him fan you than to strain your arm.”

Dick nodded comprehendingly. All the same he did not intend to strike out if he could help it.

He squared himself at the plate and faced the pitcher. McDonough turned the ball in his hands, and once more the Yale man caught that brief, almost imperceptible flash of the miner’s eyes toward the right.

Then he toed the plate and sent in a swift one with a sharp outcurve.

Merriwell did not move his bat.

“Ball one!” cried the umpire.

Again McDonough tried a coaxer, but the Yale man refused to bite, nor did he budge when the ball came whistling over the plate a little too high and cut the pan almost on a level with Dick’s neck.

“You’ve got him in a hole,” laughed Gardiner. “He’s going to make you a present of the base.”

McDonough grinned sourly and then put one straight over the centre of the plate.

Dick played the game and let it pass.

“Strike one!” declared the umpire.

The miner reached for the inside corner on his next delivery and caught it.

“Strike two!”

Then the Mispah man sought to send over a high one across Merriwell’s chest.

Dick lifted his bat, holding it loosely, and dropped the ball on the ground with a skillful bunt. It rolled slowly along the base line, and both McDonough and Rooney dashed after it, while the Yale man flew toward the base as though endowed with wings. Ten feet from the sack he launched himself through the air, feet first, and touched the hassock a second before the ball plunked into the baseman’s glove.

“Safe!” yelled the umpire.

As Buckhart came to the plate, Dick took a good lead off the cushion, and, with the first ball pitched, he was away toward second running like a fiend.

“There’s nothing the matter with his legs,” chuckled Gardiner, as the Yale man picked himself up and dusted off the front of his shirt, one foot on the bag. “I only hope he don’t jolt that lame wing of his too much.”

This was just what Merriwell was taking particular pains not to do. He slid either feet first, or on his left side, and, though the shoulder gave a painful twinge now and then, he hoped it would hold out.

Meanwhile the big Texan, assured and smiling, squared himself at the plate. He refused to be fooled by the first ball, which went a little wide; but he presently picked out one of McDonough’s benders which seemed to suit him, hitting it fair and square with a sharp, snappy swing which sent it out on a line.

It was a clean drive to the outfield, and two fielders chased the ball while Brad tore over first and managed to reach second a moment after Dick crossed the plate to the accompaniment of shrieks from the crowd, who billowed to their feet in the excitement of the moment, wildly waving hats and arms and shouting themselves hoarse.

The Field Club team had made a run.