Bill McDonough was swaggering to the plate with a smile of confidence on his ugly face, and, as Merriwell watched him through narrowed lids, he made up his mind to strike him out if he could.
He began on the miner with a jump ball. It shot upward and McDonough, who had felt certain of hitting it, missed cleanly, nearly throwing himself down with the violence of his swing.
“That’s pitching, pard,” laughed the Texan, as the sphere buried itself in the pocket of his mitt. “That’s the kind.”
The burly giant scowled a little as he stamped his spikes into the ground and squared himself, crouching and leaning a bit backward, with his weight on his right foot.
Merriwell shifted the ball in his fingers and took plenty of time. Suddenly he pitched, and the sphere came humming over with speed that almost made the air smoke.
Again McDonough missed.
A cheer went up from the crowd.
Dick felt that the batter would expect him to try a coaxer, for, with no balls called, most pitchers would feel that they could afford to waste one or two.
He glanced around at his backers, his foot on the slab. When he turned, he pitched without the slightest preliminary swing, sending over a high, straight, speedy ball. It had been his object, if possible, to catch the miner unprepared, and he succeeded. The batter struck a second too late, and the ball spanked into Buckhart’s glove.
“Out!” shouted the umpire.