Sam Allen, the chipper little second baseman, picked up his war club and squared himself at the pan.
Merriwell was not hurrying, nor wasting his time. Perfectly calm and deliberate in his movements, he continued his work in the box, and Allen presently got a high drop which he decided to strike at when he saw it coming over in a manner that indicated that it would be good.
The ball hit the upper side of Allen’s bat and went into the air.
Like a flash of lightning, Buckhart tore off his mask, whirled, looked upward, located the ball, and went after it.
A gust of wind carried the ball farther and farther away, but the Texan stretched himself amazingly and reached it as it came down. It stuck fast in the pocket of Brad’s big glove; and the miner’s exasperation was expressed by the manner in which he fiercely flung his bat toward the bench.
Two men were out, and Bill McDonough strode forward with a look of fierce determination on his face. He had made up his mind to line out the sphere or die in the attempt.
The Yale man was equally determined that he should not. He was pitching as if life and fortune depended on his performance. The torturing pain in his shoulder was forgotten as he grimly faced the hulking scoundrel at the plate.
His first ball looked fine to McDonough. Nevertheless, it shot upward with a little jump, rising over the miner’s bat as he struck.
“Strike!” snapped the umpire.
“Get him, Dick—get him!” implored Tucker. “It will settle everything! Cook his goose!”