As Dick appeared with his arm in a sling, a voice from the bleachers roared:
“His wing is on the bum, boys! Now’s the time to pile up the runs! Hammer the life out of him!”
But they did not.
Merriwell had resolved to hold them down. More runs at this stage of the game would be fatal, and, summoning every effort, he put forth all the skill that was in him. Grimly he kept at the work, pitching with his left hand, and striking out some of the heaviest hitters who faced him; and in little more than ten minutes the Mispah boys were back in the field.
Tucker now started the ball rolling by lining out a red hot one past shortstop. Dean fanned and Tommy stole second, making the cushion by a hair’s breadth amid a cloud of dust. Then Garrick popped a fly out to left field, and, shrieking with joy, Tucker saw Slavvy muff it. Tommy scooted to third, while Stan made first by a close margin.
Fortune was certainly smiling on the Forest Hills boys.
Merriwell slipped the sling from his arm and, picking up a bat, walked over to the plate.
He allowed two strikes to be called and then bunted, sending the ball rolling and squirming toward first. He was out, but he had accomplished his purpose, for Tucker slid home and Garrick reached second safely.
The score was tied, and the crowd in the grand stand and about the field shrieked itself hoarse. There was a sullen silence from the bleachers.
Gardiner was delighted.