CHAPTER XXVIII.

BATTED OUT.

To the satisfaction of Bob Harrison, an astonishingly large crowd of people turned out to watch that baseball game. The manager of the Outlaws realized it was doubtful if a bigger attendance would have appeared had Manager Loring stood by his agreement to put the regular Springs’ team onto the field. Harrison could not appreciate the fact that a host of tourists in town knew about the college men who were to play, and had a keen desire to see what they could do against the dreaded Outlaws. He imagined the crowd had been drawn out solely on account of the reputation of his star team.

Mr. Archie Ling was one of the spectators, and for a time he sought in vain some one who had the courage to bet on the collegians.

“Really,” said Mr. Ling disappointedly, “I’ve heard some people say they thought the youngsters had a chance in this game, but ’pon my word I can’t find anybody who cares to back them. I’d like a little wager, you understand. That would make it interesting.”

Some one touched him on the shoulder, and, looking round, to his disgust he discovered, an arm’s length away, the same old Indian who had offended him by appearing on the veranda of the hotel the previous evening.

“Ugh!” grunted old Crowfoot. “You make little bet? How much you bet on Outlaw men?”

“Go away,” said Ling, fanning old Joe off and turning up his dainty nose.

“You make bet talk,” persisted old Joe. “You shoot-um off your mouth. How much you bet?”

“Why, you haven’t any money.”

“How much you bet?” repeated the old redskin. “You bet five hundred plunk, old Joe he cover it.”

“Five--five hundred plunks!” gurgled Ling. “Why, you never saw so much money in your life. I doubt if you have five cents in your dirty clothes.”

Then Crowfoot dug up a huge leather sack, which clinked significantly and seemed to be stuffed to overflowing. Pulling the strings of this pouch, the redskin showed that it was filled with gold and silver coins.

“How much you bet?” he again demanded.

“Why--why,” spluttered Ling, aghast, “where did you get it?”

“None your blame business,” was the answer. “You go five hundred dol’ on Outlaw men?”

“Five hundred dollars! Why, no, indeed!”

“How much you bet?” again came the question; “one hundred dol’?”

“No, indeed! I--I’d like to make a little wager just to--just to have it interesting. I’ll bet--oh--er--about five dollars.”

With a grunt of unspeakable disgust, Crowfoot yanked at the bag strings, closing the sack, which he again stowed away upon his person.

“Five dol’!” he sneered. “You big piker. You tin horn bluffer. You make heap much loud chin. Old Joe no waste time to bet little candy money with dude.”

Mr. Ling hastily retreated, his face crimson, his ears offended by the loud laughter of the spectators.

The practice of the Outlaws was of that accurate, easy, professional order which marks the work of big teams. The youngsters likewise practiced well, but they lacked the cool atmosphere of indifference and certainty which characterized the professionals.

A man known to be a fair and impartial umpire had been secured. Confident of an all too easy victory, the Outlaws permitted the captain of the opposing team to name this official, and Dick took the man he was advised to take by Loring.

The toss of a coin gave the Outlaws the choice, and they took the field. The umpire called “play,” and the game began with South-paw Pope on the slab.

“Eat ’em alive!” roared Stover.

“Mow ’em down!” shouted Nutty McLoon.

“Be gentle with them!” pleaded Willie Touch.

“Wow! wow!” barked Warwhoop Clinker. “It will be an awful massacre.”

“We’ve never had such a snap as this,” laughed Smiling Joe Brinkley.

Now possibly four out of five of the spectators fully expected to witness a one-sided game, with the Outlaws making a runaway from the very start; and when Stover mowed down Arlington and Blessed Jones at the pan, neither of those batters even touching the ball, it seemed such a sure thing that some sporting individuals were willing to wager that the youngsters would not score at all.

Moving about, old Joe Crowfoot picked up bets here and there. With one man he bet one hundred even that the collegians would get half as many runs as the Outlaws; with another he wagered that Merriwell’s pick-ups would make as many hits as their opponents; in fact, they found him ready, as long as his money lasted, to lay almost any sort of a bet on the youthful antagonists of the professionals.

It created universal surprise when young Joe Crowfoot got a clean single off Pope. Following this, however, Buckhart popped to the infield, and the collegians left the bench.

“Start right in on the kid, Clinker,” urged Stover savagely. “Let’s give him a drop to start with. Let’s take the conceit out of him. Wait till I face him!”

Clinker tried to start things going, but he hit a ball on the upper side of his bat and popped it high into the air for Duncan Ross, who was covering first base.

“Rotten!” complained Warwhoop, seating himself disgustedly on the bench.

Kennedy banged a hot one against the shins of Tucker at short, and Tommy fumbled long enough for Grouch to canter easily over first.

“We’re off! We’re going!” roared Buzzsaw.

Tucker was saying a few uncomplimentary things to himself, but Dick Merriwell did not seem greatly disturbed.

Long Tom Hix bumped a Texas leaguer over the infield, and Kennedy, on the jump, crossed second, keeping on toward third.

Joe Crowfoot, coming in fast from center field, took the ball in the bound and whipped it like a whistling bullet to Jimmy Lozier at third.

The coacher yelled a warning at Kennedy, who suddenly realized that he could not make the sack. A moment later the crowd was filled with excitement, as the youngsters trapped Kennedy on the base line and attempted to run him down.

Again Tommy Tucker made a mess of it. He it was who fumbled a throw and gave Kennedy the chance to dash past him back to second base.

“Oh, I’m pretty good, I am!” said Tommy. “I’m playing for the Outlaws to-day. I’m afraid they won’t get a score, and I’m doing my best to help them along.”

The Outlaws scoffed and sneered at the youngsters.

His eyes gleaming viciously, Buzzsaw Stover walked to the plate, bat in hand.

“Hand one over, you young snipe,” he rasped at Dick, “and I’ll hit it a mile!”

He missed the first ball cleanly, with Merriwell smiling at him in an exasperating manner. The next one was wide, but, immediately following, Buzzsaw struck again.

Bat and ball met with a crack, and the sphere, shooting at Tommy Tucker, touched the ground once. The little chap took that hot one cleanly. Like a flash of light he snapped the ball to third for a force-out, and Lozier, making a beautiful throw, hummed it down to second for a double.

The spectators rose and shouted, while the Outlaws stared in wonderment. Stover could not find language to express his feelings.

“That’s the way to redeem yourself, Thomas,” laughed Dick, as he jogged toward the bench with Tucker at his side.

“You little no-good runt!” gurgled Bigelow. “I’d like to hug you. A few moments ago I had to hold myself hard to keep from rushing out there to kick you.”

“I was fooling ’em, Bouncer,” grinned Tommy. “They thought they could all pound the horsehide through me.”

It was Merriwell’s turn to hit.

“Get busy with that conceited bottle of buttermilk, South-paw,” urged Stover. “Show him up.”

Pope grinned and gave Dick one on the outside corner.

A moment later the crowd was yelling, as Nutty McLoon, far out in the field, went wildly racing after the sphere.

Over first and second and on toward third ran Dick. McLoon got the ball and returned it in the diamond, causing Tommy Tucker, dancing wildly on the coaching line, to make frantic gestures for Merriwell to stop at the third sack.

Fortunately, Dick had been warned by old Joe Crowfoot, and he had his eye on Buzzsaw Stover. As he came up to the sack he saw Stover, standing close by the bag, prepared for something. Then Buzzsaw did his prettiest to jab his elbow into Dick’s wind for what might have been a knockout.

Stover never knew exactly what happened to him, but he found himself spinning end over end, and Tucker was compelled to dodge to get out of his way. He picked himself up off the turf, the most amazed man in Colorado Springs. He was likewise infuriated, and started to rush at Dick. When he saw Merriwell ready and waiting, however, he changed his mind.

“What in blazes do you mean?” he snarled.

“You want to be careful with your elbows and your spikes to-day, Mr. Stover,” said Dick. “Likewise, I’d advise you, if you have occasion to tag me, not to attempt to knock out any of my teeth. I shall be looking at you all the time.”

Some of Stover’s companions were inclined to rush at Dick in a bullying manner, but the crowd rose and made it plain that sympathy lay with the youngster.

“Here, here!” shouted Harrison from the bench. “Let up on that business, boys! We won’t have to scrap to take this game in a walk.”

They knew the old man meant it by his tone, and they likewise knew it was policy to obey him.

Lozier, who followed Dick, took a signal from the Yale man at third and batted the ball into the diamond.

Merriwell came home like a streak, sliding safely, in spite of the effort to stop him from scoring. This attempt to get Dick at the plate gave Lozier time to reach first.

South-paw Pope was exasperated. He heard the crowd shout its delight and distinguished in the midst of that tumult the sound of a wild, shrill warwhoop that came from the lips of a well-satisfied old redskin who had bet his last dollar on the college boys.

Old Greg McGregor jogged into the batter’s box and let two wide ones pass. Then he found one of Pope’s benders for a safety in right that sent Lozier all the way to third.

The Outlaws were amazed and possibly somewhat rattled. At any rate, Dead-eye Jack Roony made a poor throw to second when McGregor attempted to steal, and the runner was safe.

Duncan Ross fouled out.

“The little flurry is over, Pope,” cried Long Tom Hix. “We’ll take ’em in order now. Let the two kids cool their heels on the sacks.”

Tucker scarcely looked like a hitter as he stood at the plate twiddling his bat. He looked even less so when he missed Pope’s first ball by a foot. But a moment later he bumped an easy hit through the infield, and both Lozier and McGregor raced home.

“Oh, my, how easy!” whooped Tommy. “It’s pie! it’s pie! We’ll bat him out of the box.”

Chester Arlington had caught the fever. He followed with a stinging two-sacker, which carried Tucker to the pan.

The crowd was cheering and laughing; Bob Harrison was astounded and furious. The exasperated manager roared at Pope threateningly, and South-paw vowed to stop the “doings” right away.

He vowed in vain. Jones hit safely, and Arlington scored. Then young Joe emulated Arlington in hitting, and old Blessed added another tally.

Manager Harrison had a fit.

“Come in here, Pope!” he thundered. “You’re on the bum! Go out there and stop this business, Brown!”

The collegians had batted the great south-paw twirler off the slab!