CHAPTER XIII.

AGAINST HEAVY ODDS.

Gardiner was jubilant. With a run already, a man on second, and only one out, things were picking up.

“Take it easy, Irv,” he said, as Renworth picked out a bat and advanced to the plate. “All we want is a nice single.”

Then he hurried down to the coaching line at first.

Renworth was not a particularly strong batter. He was apt to lose his head and misjudge the balls, and, in spite of his determination to make a clean single or at least a bunt, he had two strikes called on him almost before he knew it. Then he popped a high fly over toward centre field, and, but for an error on the part of Glathe, he would have been done for. Luckily the big German muffed the ball, and Renworth cantered across the initial sack, while Buckhart reached third.

“Now, Buck, it’s up to you,” Gardiner cried. “You know what to do. Say, Tucker, come out and coach, will you? I’m up next.”

As Garland came to the plate, Dick kept his eyes fixed on the burly pitcher. He was very curious to learn the reason for that momentary sidelong glance which he gave almost before every delivery. He thought he had solved the problem, but he was not quite sure. There it was again! A swift, glinting flash of his dark eyes, and then he pitched.

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

“I thought that was it,” murmured the Yale man with much satisfaction. “He’s getting his signals from Fairchilds. That’s pretty clever.”

Since his attention had been attracted to the pitcher’s odd trick of hesitating almost imperceptibly before he delivered the ball Merriwell had been looking about for the reason. Soon he saw that the mine owner never left his position a little back of the base line some twenty feet to the left of the plate. He noticed, moreover, that Fairchilds was strangely silent while his own team was in the field, whereas, with them at the bat, he took to advising, coaching, and encouraging.

Dick, therefore, came to the conclusion that his first impression of the burly miner had been correct. It was not his brain which was doing such good work, but that of Orren Fairchilds. The mine owner had been able to teach the man curves and speed and good control, but he could not teach him judgment. Instead, he had done the next best thing, and by means of a clever system of signals, he himself practically did the thinking and directed every move made by the burly giant in the box.

At first, Renworth was inclined to stick much too close to the base to suit the vivacious Tucker.

“Get off! get off!” yapped Tommy. “Stir your stumps! Get to going! Drift away from that sack, Irv! Stop hugging it! It isn’t a girl. Get a divorce from that cushion!”

Thus admonished, Renworth danced away from the hassock as McDonough received the ball from Rooney. Dick noticed the quick flash of his eyes, and the next instant the burly pitcher whirled without a warning and lined the sphere to Hall, who covered the base.

“Slide! Slide!” shrieked Tucker frantically.

Renworth did his best, but was caught almost by a hair’s breadth, the umpire declaring him out.

Then McDonough wound up the inning by striking out Buck Garland.

“Never mind, boys,” Gardiner said cheerfully, as they jogged into the field. “They’re only one run ahead. We’ll make that up.”

But inning after inning came and went, and the score remained unchanged.

As the game wore on McDonough seemed to improve. His speed grew greater, his control more perfect, his curves more difficult; but more surprising than anything else was the wonderful headwork he displayed. He seemed to divine a batter’s weak points with marvelous intuitiveness, varying his delivery with a cleverness which was almost uncanny. In addition to all that, he made so many brilliant put-outs on bases that the Forest Hills boys dared not take any chances. It was as though he had eyes in the back of his head.

To the great crowd in the grand stand and on the bleachers, even to the Forest Hills men in the field, it was an extraordinary exhibition of almost perfect pitching. Only one among them seemed to realize that the hulking miner in the box, whose name resounded almost continually from the mouths of the roaring thousands, was a mere machine, and that the real credit belonged to the quiet little man, standing silently near the home plate, his bright eyes taking in every inch of the field--a man who had once held a high place on one of the big leagues, but who was doing his playing now by proxy.

Dick Merriwell was fighting desperately against tremendous odds. As the game progressed his shoulder grew constantly worse. From the first occasional twinges it had advanced by leaps and bounds, to a constant, steady, almost intolerable pain, which caused him to catch his breath at every throw, and made each turn at the bat an agony.

But nothing of this appeared to the men on the field, much less to the spectators. With splendid grit and unflagging cheerfulness he kept at the work without a murmur, using every cure at his command and every possible wile on the man at the bat, though not sparing himself when speed was necessary. And, thanks to Buckhart’s signals, the mine boys soon discovered to their cost that they could steal no bases on the Yale pitcher.

Off the field Merriwell’s cheery voice, on the coaching lines or at the plate, put new life into the Forest Hills fellows and kept them from growing disheartened as the fierce battle waged without further tangible results on either side.

One man on the field saw more than did the others. The big Texan seemed to realize something of what his friend was suffering, and the knowledge spurred him to do more than his best. There were no errors in the Westerner’s brilliant playing. There were no passed balls; his throws into the field were swift, accurate, and perfect; his eyes seemed to take in every foot of the diamond; and, time and time again, his rapid signals caused an unexpected put-out on bases.

At each turn at the bat he made a clean hit; one was a two-bagger, which the rapid fielding and steady play of the mine boys made ineffective.

But, in spite of all this, the seventh inning ended without either side having added to their score.

Before Dick went into the box he had Gardiner put his right arm into a sling. It seemed to him that if he could have it tied firmly so that it wouldn’t swing he could get along better.

“If it’s as bad as that you ought to stop,” protested the curly haired captain.

Dick shook his head decidedly.

“At the beginning of the eighth!” he exclaimed lightly. “Never! It’s a pity if I can’t hold out for two innings. We’ve got to get at least a couple of runs, you know, old fellow.”

Among the spectators the excitement was intense. Such a game had never before been seen in Forest Hills, and every man sat forward on the edge of his seat, his eyes glued on the field. Something must happen soon.

As Dick appeared with his arm in a sling, a voice from the bleachers roared:

“His wing is on the bum, boys! Now’s the time to pile up the runs! Hammer the life out of him!”

But they did not.

Merriwell had resolved to hold them down. More runs at this stage of the game would be fatal, and, summoning every effort, he put forth all the skill that was in him. Grimly he kept at the work, pitching with his left hand, and striking out some of the heaviest hitters who faced him; and in little more than ten minutes the Mispah boys were back in the field.

Tucker now started the ball rolling by lining out a red hot one past shortstop. Dean fanned and Tommy stole second, making the cushion by a hair’s breadth amid a cloud of dust. Then Garrick popped a fly out to left field, and, shrieking with joy, Tucker saw Slavvy muff it. Tommy scooted to third, while Stan made first by a close margin.

Fortune was certainly smiling on the Forest Hills boys.

Merriwell slipped the sling from his arm and, picking up a bat, walked over to the plate.

He allowed two strikes to be called and then bunted, sending the ball rolling and squirming toward first. He was out, but he had accomplished his purpose, for Tucker slid home and Garrick reached second safely.

The score was tied, and the crowd in the grand stand and about the field shrieked itself hoarse. There was a sullen silence from the bleachers.

Gardiner was delighted.

“That’s going some!” he cried. “Now, Brad, see if you can bring in another.”

The Texan refused to be tempted by McDonough’s coaxers. He forced him to put one straight over and then fell on it with violent delight. It was a frightful smash, and the sphere went sailing on a line into the field to the right of centre.

There was nothing slow about Garrick as he dashed across third like a race horse and, in response to Dean’s frantic urging, kept on toward home. He made the plate easily, and Buckhart got to second with a splendid slide.

“Got ’em going, boys,” Brad shouted--“got ’em going!”

The crowd went wild and nearly stamped down the grand stand.

Renworth quickly fanned, but the Forest Hills boys did not care, for they were one run to the good.

As Merriwell resumed his sling and walked out to the box he was greeted with a sudden round of applause. Though they did not know the circumstances, the crowd seemed suddenly to realize how much of the success of the game was due to the grit of this cool, smiling stranger, who, in spite of his injured arm, was doing such splendid work.

Herman Glathe, the big German fielder, was the first to face the Yale twirler.

Dick took no chances. If he could hold them down for this inning the game would be won. He pitched skillfully and with care, and the German fanned.

“One down, pard,” grinned Buckhart through the wire meshes of his cage. “Let the good work go on.”

Sam Allen, the chipper little second baseman, picked up his war club and squared himself at the pan.

Merriwell was not hurrying, nor wasting his time. Perfectly calm and deliberate in his movements, he continued his work in the box, and Allen presently got a high drop which he decided to strike at when he saw it coming over in a manner that indicated that it would be good.

The ball hit the upper side of Allen’s bat and went into the air.

Like a flash of lightning, Buckhart tore off his mask, whirled, looked upward, located the ball, and went after it.

A gust of wind carried the ball farther and farther away, but the Texan stretched himself amazingly and reached it as it came down. It stuck fast in the pocket of Brad’s big glove; and the miner’s exasperation was expressed by the manner in which he fiercely flung his bat toward the bench.

Two men were out, and Bill McDonough strode forward with a look of fierce determination on his face. He had made up his mind to line out the sphere or die in the attempt.

The Yale man was equally determined that he should not. He was pitching as if life and fortune depended on his performance. The torturing pain in his shoulder was forgotten as he grimly faced the hulking scoundrel at the plate.

His first ball looked fine to McDonough. Nevertheless, it shot upward with a little jump, rising over the miner’s bat as he struck.

“Strike!” snapped the umpire.

“Get him, Dick--get him!” implored Tucker. “It will settle everything! Cook his goose!”

McDonough set his teeth with a snarl; his eyes gleamed fiercely.

He was ready with every nerve tense, hoping and desiring to meet Merriwell’s speed fairly. But now, at this critical point, Dick, after using a delivery which seemed to prophesy a swift one, handed up the slowest sort of a slow ball. It came with such exasperating slowness from the Yale man’s hand, that something actually seemed holding it back. In spite of everything he could do, McDonough struck too soon.

A snarl broke from his lips in a sound which was the height of rage expressed without words. His face turned purple and he gripped the handle of his bat with all the strength in his great hands. As he glared ferociously at the cool, half smiling face before him, something like a haze seemed to gather before his eyes. Before it had passed, Merriwell whistled over a high, swift ball which cut the plate in halves.

McDonough seemed to see something flit past, but it was the spank of the ball into Buckhart’s glove that told him that Dick had pitched.

“Out!” cried the umpire.

With a roar like thunder, the crowd poured down onto the field in a human cataract from the stand, and, before he could escape, Merriwell was seized and lifted up on some one’s shoulders. For a moment he struggled to get away; then, seeing it would be useless, he resigned himself to the inevitable and waited calmly until their enthusiasm should cool.

After marching about the field for a few minutes, they came back to the clubhouse and allowed him to slip to the ground. As he did so, Orren Fairchilds hurried up.

“Wonderful work, my boy,” he exclaimed--“wonderful! By Jove! I never saw anything like it. It was a fair, square beat; and every bit of it was due to you--you and that catcher of yours. How did the arm hold out?”

Dick made a wry face.

“It’s not as comfortable as it might be,” he confessed.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” the mine owner said quickly. “You ought to get something on it at once. Come around to the club and take dinner with me to-night about seven--bring your friends with you. The Reform Club, on Locust Street, you know. Good-by.”

With a wave of his hand, he disappeared into the crowd; and Dick hastened into the dressing room of the club.

A few minutes before seven o’clock that evening Dick drove the _Wizard_ up to the entrance of the Reform Club, and slipping the plug into his pocket, alighted with his three friends.

In the reception hall an attendant came forward.

“Is Mr. Fairchilds here,” Dick inquired--“Mr. Orren Fairchilds?”

The man looked at him rather curiously.

“Are you Mr. Merriwell?” he asked.

Dick nodded.

“Kindly take the elevator to the third floor,” the attendant said quickly. “He asked that you be sent up directly you came. James!”

A page came forward, and the man said something to him in a low tone. Then he waved them toward the elevator, and in a moment they were whisked upstairs.

The page stepped out first and, going down the hall a few steps, opened a door and announced clearly:

“Mr. Merriwell!”

Dick stopped aghast on the threshold. The room was a private dining room and not small, yet it seemed to his startled senses to be full of people.

“There’s some mistake,” he gasped. “I----”

The mine owner suddenly appeared and seized his hand.

“Come in, my boy--come in,” he said briskly. “What are you afraid of? Just a few people I wanted you to meet.”

There was a smile on his face, and he winked at Buckhart over Merriwell’s shoulder.

As in a daze, Dick followed his host into the room. He had a vague recollection of being presented to an amazing number of men, who smiled at him and shook his hand warmly. They were of all ages, from gray-haired, stout, substantial bankers and merchants, down to clean-cut, good-looking fellows of his own age, among whom he recognized smiling Glen Gardiner and most of the other members of the team.

One, a tall, handsome man of middle age, with a close-cropped beard and brilliant, kindly eyes, he heard spoken of as the mayor.

At length he found himself at one end of a very long table. Orren Fairchilds was on his left; he had quite lost sight of Brad and the others.

Presently the mine owner arose, and, as he did so, the talk and laughter ceased and silence fell.

“Gentlemen,” he began slowly. “I have asked you here to-night to meet a young friend of mine. To many of you his name is well known as that of the best amateur pitcher in the country. Most of you had a chance of seeing his work this afternoon, when he pitched nine hard innings with as perfect form and most wonderful display of headwork that I have ever seen--and entirely with his left arm. His right was injured, and I should like to tell you how.”

He paused. The smile had left his face and his eyes were deep with feeling.

“In the mine this morning there was a premature explosion of a blast,” he went on. “I was caught by the falling rock and pinned to the ground, unable to stir. As I lay there on my back, I saw a great mass poised above me, loosened from the top of the tunnel, ready to fall at a breath and crush the life out of me. My friend, here, saw it too, and knew that he was risking almost certain death when he sprang to my assistance and began to drag the rocks off me.

“I begged him to go and leave me. It seemed useless for us both to perish. Of course, he refused. The rock began to move. I shrieked to him to go back, but he did not answer. The next instant he caught me up and dragged me back just as the mass fell. There had not been a second to spare. He had saved me at the risk of his own life.”

The mine owner paused again, and one hand rested affectionately on the Yale man’s shoulder. Then he leaned forward and took up a brimming wine glass.

“Gentlemen,” he said slowly, as he held it up, “I drink to Dick Merriwell, the gamest pitcher, the truest sport, the bravest man I know.”

Like one man, the company rose, holding their glasses high. As with one voice the shout of “Merriwell--Dick Merriwell!” made the rafters ring; and they drank the toast standing. Then they subsided into their chairs, and in the silence which followed, Dick pushed back his chair and stood up slowly.

His face was flushed, his eyes bright and, as he looked down that long line of friendly faces, something clutched his throat. For a moment he could not utter a word.

“Thank you,” he stammered huskily. “I--I cannot say--another word, but just--thank you.”

He dropped back upon his chair; a thunderous clapping broke forth, and something like a mist flashed across the Yale man’s eyes and blurred his sight.