“You little no-good runt!” gurgled Bigelow. “I’d like to hug you. A few moments ago I had to hold myself hard to keep from rushing out there to kick you.”
“I was fooling ’em, Bouncer,” grinned Tommy. “They thought they could all pound the horsehide through me.”
It was Merriwell’s turn to hit.
“Get busy with that conceited bottle of buttermilk, South-paw,” urged Stover. “Show him up.”
Pope grinned and gave Dick one on the outside corner.
A moment later the crowd was yelling, as Nutty McLoon, far out in the field, went wildly racing after the sphere.
Over first and second and on toward third ran Dick. McLoon got the ball and returned it in the diamond, causing Tommy Tucker, dancing wildly on the coaching line, to make frantic gestures for Merriwell to stop at the third sack.
Fortunately, Dick had been warned by old Joe Crowfoot, and he had his eye on Buzzsaw Stover. As he came up to the sack he saw Stover, standing close by the bag, prepared for something. Then Buzzsaw did his prettiest to jab his elbow into Dick’s wind for what might have been a knockout.
Stover never knew exactly what happened to him, but he found himself spinning end over end, and Tucker was compelled to dodge to get out of his way. He picked himself up off the turf, the most amazed man in Colorado Springs. He was likewise infuriated, and started to rush at Dick. When he saw Merriwell ready and waiting, however, he changed his mind.
“What in blazes do you mean?” he snarled.