CHAPTER XXVI.

MASON’S CHALLENGE.

“Mason!” cried Merriwell, who was batting to the outfield.

Then he sent out a long, difficult fly, forcing Mason to run for it as hard as he could.

Hock held it, though forced to take it on the dead run.

“Gamp!”

Merry gave Joe one very much like that driven out to Hock, and the New Hampshire youth made his long legs fly as he pranced over the ground. He gathered the fly in, whirled round, and sent it almost on a line to the plate. Gamp was a wonderful thrower, and he sometimes fancied showing off a little.

“Benson!”

Frank cracked out a liner to Lib Benson in right field. It was not straight at Benson, and he was compelled to jump to get in front of it; but he took it handsomely, giving Nash, Mullen, and Cowles a chance to applaud.

In the meantime, another man was batting all kinds of balls to the infield, keeping every one on the jump. Pretty soon Frank changed places with the other batter. He had given the outfielders the kind of work that he felt was best for them, and now he wished to see the infield practise.

Ready, covering second, was sent leaping after a ground-skimmer.

“First!” rang out Merry’s voice.

Jack picked it up, and, without straightening, still running, he snapped it to Browning.

“Second!”

The command came from Merry while the ball was on its way to Bruce. Browning took it and threw, to second without a moment’s delay.

Morgan had leaped to cover the bag, but he was a trifle too slow, and he touched the ball with one hand only.

“Ginger up!” commanded Frank promptly. “You must cover that bag, Morgan, when Ready is after the ball like that.”

Dade started to shrug his shoulders, but changed his mind instantly, smiled a bit sweetly, and called in a musical, good-natured voice:

“All right, sir.”

And this was the same Dade Morgan who had once seemed to be Frank Merriwell’s bitter and unrelenting enemy. A great change had come over Dade since the death of Santenel. Released from the power of the hypnotist, Morgan was fast becoming quite a different fellow.

Next Frank drove a liner to Carson, who was on third, and the Westerner took it with out-thrust hand.

“First!”

Berlin lined it across the diamond in a very pretty manner.

“Home!”

Hodge was waiting, and the ball plunked into his mitt.

“Second!”

Bart’s throwing to second was a feature of any game. His short-arm throw was perfect, and he could line a ball down to the second bag without getting out of his tracks.

“Oh, Laura!” murmured Ready, as he took the throw. “What a peach!”

“Home!”

Jack sent it back, and his throw was almost as beautiful as Bart’s, but he made harder work of it.

Base-running, batting, and signal practise followed. The team this year had a complete signal system, so that every man could tell just what was to be done or tried without a word being spoken by anybody. From the bench, the box, or the coaching-lines Merry could give directions, and he was sure an attempt would be made to follow them. If two runners were on the bases, one on first and one on second, Frank could make a signal that would cause the batter to “take one,” while both runners knew they were to try a “double steal” on the first delivery, and they started together with no misunderstanding. Even if one of them were cut off, the other was pretty sure to advance a bag. A sacrifice could be called for by a signal, a man could be directed to bunt or to try to place the ball in any particular field. When Frank was pitching he simply assumed certain positions that caused the fielders to move to the right or left, to play short or long, brought the infield in or sent it out, and every player knew just what the kind of a ball he was going to deliver.

But now the disagreement over Mason threatened trouble. Frank knew the feeling of distrust, and lost confidence was the very worst thing that could assail a ball-team, and he was doing his best to give the Southerner a chance to restore confidence to some extent.

Mason never worked harder in a game. Not even once did he drop a ball he could touch with his hands. He ran in for them and ran out for them. He dug them out of the dirt, pulled them down out of the sky, and took them over his shoulder. When it came to batting he seemed able to hit anything that might be called a strike. He ran and slid bases handsomely.

Hodge watched with sour looks the practise of the Southerner. Several of the players who had failed to make the regular nine were on the field now, giving the players a chance to come in to the bench and do batting and base-running.

“What thinkest thou?” murmured Jack Ready, as he saw Hodge gloomily watching Mason. “Perchance he may redeem himself--not?”

“I don’t think there is any hope that he will,” said Bart harshly. “He’s one of these fellows that can do almost anything in practise, but is no earthly good in real work.”

“Thinkest thou so?” chirped Jack. “Then it’s plain that you do not agree with our great and mighty chieftain. He must think otherwise, else he’d not retain him.”

“Oh, Merry’s got a fool notion that the fellow can play. Usually, I’m ready to stand by anything Merry says, but in this case I’m not, for I know he’s wrong.”

“Perchance you do not love this Mason, whose front name is Hock?”

“I never did, but I’ve had to tolerate him.”

“He has ways which much resemble some of yours,” ventured Jack.

Bart scowled.

“That may be true, and I think likely it’s why I dislike him; but I swear I never entertained some of his fool notions about dignity and the degrading influence of honest work. I respect a man who has enough snap in himself to get out and hustle. Mason looks with pity and disdain on a man who has to get out and hustle. That’s where his cursed Southern training makes him a cad!”

“I myself love work,” asserted Ready. “I love it so much that I can peacefully lie down beside it and sleep almost any time. Besides, there are so many others working that I don’t see as if it would be important whether I helped them or not.”

“It would be a good thing if Mason had to get out and make his way in the world. Perhaps it would teach him not to curl his nose up at honest people who labor.”

“It may be thou art right; but I think he’d go into politics and become a congressman before he would stoop to work. Some men, you know, will suffer any degradation rather than toil.”

“He needs to be taken down a peg or two,” said Bart. “I hate a cad, and Mason is a cad of the first water.”

“I don’t care to get into a fight here,” said the voice of Mason himself, who had, unperceived, come in from the field after making the round of the bases; “but, sah, if you want to back up your talk, sah, I’ll meet you anywhere you like, sah.”

“La! la!” murmured Ready. “Methinks I smell smoke!”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” said Hodge. “I wouldn’t waste my time thrashing a fellow like you.”

Mason’s face was white, and his eyes glittered.

“You must agree to fight me, sah,” he said passionately, though trying to hold himself in check.

“Why should I?”

“Because, sah, if you do not, by the gods! I’ll brand you as a miserable coward, and I’ll slap your face in the presence of these fellows.”

Bart saw that Mason really meant fight. Now, to tell the truth, Hodge was not adverse to a fight with Hock, and it gave him real satisfaction when he saw that he could truthfully declare he had been forced into it. He had not wished Merriwell to think he would seek such a quarrel.

“Oh, well,” he said, “if you will have it, all right; but I call on Ready to witness that I did not force this affair.”

“That’s all right,” nodded Jack. “I am ready to witness that, but I had much rather witness the scrap. Say, I’m to be one of the guests of honor, am I nit?”

“I leave that to Mr. Mason,” said Bart coolly.

Hock made no reply. Instead, he said:

“I’ll see you, Mr. Hodge, sah, immediately after practise.”

“The sooner the better,” said Bart.