He strode out of the door, and Orren Fairchilds turned to Dick.
“That’s my prize pitcher,” he explained. “Six months ago he knew as much about baseball as a two-year-old, and I thought he’d never be able to get a ball over the plate. But he was anxious to learn, and we kept at it. I’m proud of him now.”
The fellow came back on the run, a package of dynamite sticks swinging carelessly from one hand. At the sight of them, Bigelow’s fat face turned pale and he edged away a little.
“My goodness!” he whispered hoarsely to Tucker. “Look at the way he carries them. What if they should drop.”
“Don’t worry, Bouncer,” Tommy returned, with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “It needs a spark combined with the concussion to set it off.”
“Still, I don’t like it,” complained the fat chap.
The mine owner had paused at the cage door.
“Merriwell, shake hands with my pitcher, McDonough,” he said briskly. “You two boys will be up against each other good and hard this afternoon.”
Dick put out his hand promptly, and the miner’s great paw closed over it with a grip which gave a hint of amazing strength. He looked the Yale man straight in the eyes, and for a brief instant Merriwell seemed to read something like a threat which flashed into those dark orbs and was gone.
“Glad to know you,” McDonough said quietly. “I reckon we’ll try to give the grand standers the worth of their money.”