CHAPTER XXX.

DICK SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.

The Yale men gave a cheer, ending with the name of Dick Merriwell, while Elsie and Inza flaunted their flags.

“An accident,” sneered the man with the dog. “It won’t happen again.”

Dick looked angry as he came walking in to the bench, where Old Joe calmly smoked away.

“A little hard luck, that’s all,” said Hodge. “Don’t mind it, Dick.”

“No hard luck about it!” flashed Dick. “It was my wretched work that gave them their runs!”

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Um ball-players hit Injun Heart heap cracko. No let um do so some more.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Dick.

“Don’t worry over it a bit,” smiled Frank. “I’ve been hit lots harder than that in my day, and won my game, too. There’s nothing serious about it yet.”

But Dick was wholly displeased with himself, and he showed it in his angry manner.

Ready chose a bat and ambled out to the plate, chirping:

“It’s your funeral now, Morgan. Oh, Dadie, my boy, we won’t do a single thing to you!”

Dade smiled in his sweetest manner. He was a handsome fellow, and he made a graceful appearance in his suit. He looked around to make sure every man was in position.

Then Morgan broke loose and sent over a ball that whistled through the air. His speed was something surprising, even to those who knew him well.

“Strike!” called the umpire, although Jack had not swung.

“La! la! what steam!” Ready exclaimed. “You must have gunpowder in your wing, Dadie!”

Morgan’s next one was a beautiful in shoot, and, thinking it another straight, swift one, Ready fanned.

“Two strikes!”

“There is a pitcher for you!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “He’ll make that Merriwell aggregation look like twenty-nine cents.”

“How the wind blows!” came from Ready. “That nearly trimmed my whiskers.”

Morgan used the same delivery on the next ball, but it proved to be a sharp drop, and Ready did not come within a foot of it.

“Batter is out!” rang the clear voice of the umpire.

The general crowd shouted with satisfaction.

“Dade,” said Ready, “you’re a lucky dog. I had decided to make a home run at the very start, but I changed my mind. That’s what saved you.”

Again Morgan smiled. He knew Carson well, and he started with a high in shoot, at which Berlin fanned. Then followed a high one, which pulled the youth from Colorado, and the second strike was called.

Having this advantage, Morgan deliberately wasted two balls.

Carson waited for a good one, which he fancied he had finally found. He hit the ball hard on the ground, and it went straight at Mason. Just as it reached Hock it took a bad bound, and Mason did not get his hands on it fairly.

Carson was sprinting to first with all the speed he could muster, which led Mason to snatch up the ball and throw quicker than he had intended.

The throw was high for even tall Dick Starbright to reach, and Berlin continued on to second, which he safely reached.

“Well, well, well!” cried Ready, as he capered down toward third. “You’ll have to get a step-ladder, Starbright, old boy. The gentleman from South Carolina is wilder than mountain scenery.”

“Don’t mind that, Hock,” said Morgan, who was captain of the team. “Get it down next time.”

Mason took such things hard, and Morgan knew it would not do to “jump on him.”

Hodge walked out, his lips pressed together. Morgan realized that he was facing one of the hardest batters on Merriwell’s team, and he at once resorted to all the strategy he could command.

Hodge was anxious to hit, but he waited till two balls were called. Then Dade put over a high straight one, and Hodge smashed it.

The ball went along the ground to Packard, who got in front of it and gathered it up. It was too late to stop Carson from reaching third, but Oliver easily threw Hodge out at first.

“Now a Texas leaguer!” cried Ready, as Browning came up. “Move the outfielders back.”

Browning longed to smash the ball, but, to his dismay, Merriwell gave him the sign to bunt. Carson saw the sign also and knew what to do.

The first ball was shoulder-high, and high balls are hard to bunt successfully, so Bruce let it pass.

“Strike one!” said the umpire.

Carson had played down on the pitch, but he went back to third in a lively manner.

The next ball was too wide, and the umpire called it a ball. Then came one that suited Bruce, who did his best to drop it inside the line toward third.

To Browning’s astonishment, the bunt was almost perfect. Bruce did not start quickly, however, and Morgan came in for the ball like a leaping panther.

Carson tore down the line to the plate, and Dade realized that the only way to stop the score was to throw Browning out at first.

Morgan gathered the ball and threw hastily. It happened that Browning was between Dade and Starbright, so that Morgan did not make a good throw. Starbright stopped the ball with his big mitt, but it dropped to the ground, and he could not get it up before Browning went over the sack.

A cheer went up from the Yale men on the bleachers.

“Well, that’s hard luck!” exclaimed the fellow with the dog. “They got that run without making a hit off Morgan.”

This was true.

The smile had vanished from Dade’s face as he returned to the pitcher’s position. Gamp was up, and Morgan again burned the ball over with great speed. He was seeking to strike Gamp out, and he failed to hold Browning close to first, thinking Bruce too slow and lazy to steal.

But, when thoroughly awakened, Browning was anything but slow. He started for second on the second ball pitched, and seemed to gather momentum with every stride.

Mulloy lined the ball down, the throw being a trifle high. However, it seemed that Packard would get it in time. Browning slid feet first for the bag.

Packard was not anxious to get in the way of the big fellow’s spikes, and he failed to get the ball onto Bruce quite soon enough.

“Safe!” said the umpire.

“Rotten!” cried the man with the dog. “He was out! Shoot the umpire!”

“Oh-h-h, go choke yourself!” cried several of the Yale men.

One strike and one ball had been called. Dade gave Gamp a drop, and Joe met it. The ball sailed away into deep center, while Browning sprinted to bring in the score that would tie.

Ephraim Gallup made his long legs fly in his run to get under the ball. It did not seem that he could reach it by many feet, but he hurled himself forward in a last furious effort, and got his hands on it. Then he went whirling end over end and held fast to the ball till he could rise and hold it up.

“Out!” was the decision of the umpire.

“Ah-h-h!” shouted the man with the dog. “Even that wasn’t a hit! Now they’ll get after the boy!”

The crowd applauded Gallup’s remarkable catch, even Inza Burrage being led to clap her hands, although she declared she was sorry he held the ball.

“Don’t know when I’ve worked as hard as that before,” grumbled Browning, “and all for nothing. It makes me very tired.”

“Heap good work now,” said Old Joe to Dick, as the latter rose from the bench. “Joe, him lookin’.”

The boy said nothing, but there was determination in his manner as he walked onto the diamond. For the time he forgot his home far away under the shadow of the eternal Rockies, he forgot Felicia and her calling voice, and he thought of nothing save the game in which he was taking part.

“They will bat him out of the box this inning,” said the man with the dog.

“They will not!” murmured Inza firmly.

“I hope not!” whispered Elsie. “He is handsome! Don’t you think he is, Inza?”

“Yes; but not as handsome as Frank.”

“He is much younger.”

“He never can be as handsome as Frank!” exclaimed the loyal Inza.

“Somehow he reminds me of Bart,” said Elsie. “He is dark, and there is something like Bart in his manner.”

“I have noticed it.”

Dick warmed up by throwing a few to Browning on first.

Gene Skelding, once the uncompromising enemy of Frank Merriwell, was the first man to strike in this inning. Skelding had changed and reformed, having quit his former vicious associates, and he was proving to be quite a decent fellow.

Skelding, however, was not a heavy hitter, and Hodge knew it. Bart called for the jump ball at the start, which Dick sent whistling over.

Skelding went after it.

“Strike!” said the umpire.

An out drop followed, and Gene fouled it.

“Two strikes!”

Then Dick sent in another rise. Gene fouled that, but, as two strikes had been called, it did not count against him.

Then came one over his head, which he let pass.

Bart signed for an out drop. It came up slowly and looked pretty to Gene, but he missed it cleanly, Hodge holding it.

“Batter is out!” announced the umpire.

A shout rose from the spectators.

“Pretty pitching!” cried Hodge approvingly.

Dick betrayed no sound of elation, nor did he notice the shouting crowd.

Hans Dunnerwurst came toddling out with a bat.

“You vill had to put der plate righdt ofer der pall, my poy,” he announced. “Der pad vons nefer hit at me. I haf an eye like an eagles. Yaw!”

Then he proceeded to swipe at the very first one, although it was so high that it seemed almost out of reach.

“What in the world have they got that chump on the team for?” angrily exclaimed the man with the dog. “He couldn’t knock a corner off a house if somebody threw it over the plate!”

“Here! here! what you doin’, Dutchy?” cried Ephraim Gallup. “Why don’t you let that kind go, you big, fat chump?”

“You vas a pig, vat chumps myseluf!” snorted Hans angrily. “Don’d you shooted off your mouth some more or I vill hit you in my eye! Dot’s vot vos der madder mit Hannah!”

The next ball was so low that it almost hit the plate, yet Hans seemed to shut his eyes and swipe at it wildly, missing it by about two feet.

“Oh!” roared the crowd. “Where did he ever play ball?”

“None uf my pusiness!” squawked Hans, apparently very angry. “Shust you vait an hour und I vill knock der pall off der cover!”

Dick Merriwell had been serious enough, but now the comical Dutch youth proved too much for the boy, and he broke into a peal of laughter.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “Oh, ha! ha! ha!”

“Maype you vill nod laugh so hardness britty quickness,” said Hans hotly. “Shust you pay attendance to my business und bitch der pall!”

Dick received the ball from Bart, but he could not recover from his amusement at once, and Morgan called for the umpire to make him pitch.

Thinking the umpire might call a ball on him again for delaying the game, Dick sent it over.

How it happened no one could tell, but Hans slashed at it and hit it fairly, driving it over the infield and away into the outfield.

“Yow!” whooped the Dutch boy, as he made his short legs twinkle. “Didn’d you told me so! I knewed vot der pall vould done to me!”

Packard saw there was a chance for Hans to reach second, and so he sent him along. Never in all his life had the Dutch youth run faster, and the sight was a most ludicrous one.

Swiftwing overtook the ball and turned to throw it to second. He was a good thrower, and he lined it straight into the waiting hands of Rattleton.

Just before reaching second Hans seemed to trip over his own feet, and down he went, turning over and over on the ground, like a ball. When he stopped he was sitting on second base, and he had reached it in time to be safe.

How the crowd shouted.

“Dunnerwurst’s usual luck!” laughed Frank Merriwell. “He can blunder into more things like that than any fellow I ever saw play baseball.”

Dick Merriwell had not stopped laughing, for the sight of Hans running like a frightened duck and turning over and over to sit up on the bag was so comical the boy found it impossible not to be amused.

“Well,” said the man with the dog, “that settles it! When a fat slob like that can make a two-bagger off Merriwell’s brother, everybody can hit him. Hey, Nero?”

“Bow-wow!” barked the dog.

Dade Morgan was well satisfied, and he wore his sweetest smile when he walked out to the plate. He assumed an easy batting position, swinging handsomely at the first one pitched, but failing to hit it.

“There’s a batter!” exclaimed the man with the dog.

Dick Merriwell steadied down now, giving Morgan the jump ball the next time, which caused Dade to miss again.

Then Bart signed for a drop, but Dick shook his head, having been given a tip from Frank. A high in shoot drove Dade back from the plate, and an out followed. Morgan hit the ball foul.

“You’ll lace it next trip, Dade!” cried Packard.

“Und I vill get indo a score,” declared Dunnerwurst. “I vos a recular chain-lightnings running pases!”

Dick took the time limit on Morgan, and gave him the jump ball once more. Morgan missed it.

“You’re out!” said the umpire.

The man with the dog muttered something to himself, while the Yale crowd cheered.

“Beautiful work, Dick!” exclaimed Frank. “Now you are pitching your game!”

Packard ran in from the coach-line, and stepped out with his special bat.

“Put it over good,” he invited. “I’ll hit it a mile.”

“All right,” said the boy coolly. “Here you have it.”

He threw the ball with a good rise on it, and Packard hit it.

Up into the air the ball sailed. Dick stood in his tracks.

“Take it, Dick!” cried Merry, as he ran in to back the boy up.

Down came the ball, and it was gracefully captured and held by the boy pitcher, which retired the side.

“What’s the matter with Frank Merriwell’s brother?” shouted one of the Yale men.

“He’s all right!” roared all the others.

Then, as the cheering subsided, up from the bench rose Old Joe Crowfoot, and from his lips pealed a yell that was shrill and clear and piercing. It was his tribute to the skill and prowess of his beloved protégé.