“No shower to-day!” laughed Roberts, as Crockett walked out to the plate, his bat on his shoulder. “There will be no such good luck for poor old Fardale!”
“Dern your picter!” squeaked Obediah Tubbs. “Mebbe you will be wishing for a shower before this game is over.”
Dick was in the pitcher’s box.
“Right off—start right off, captain!” cried Black, from left field.
“Put hit hover!” urged Billy. “’E can’t ’it hanything!”
“Try his eye, old boy—try his eye!” urged Darrell.
“He is a mark,” averred Singleton.
“Right there, pard—right there!” said Buckhart, holding up his mitt.
Chester Arlington and Mel Fraser were sitting side by side. Chester smiled derisively, and observed:
“For a dead cold fact, Merriwell beats anything I ever saw. I reckoned he would be furious with Darrell, but he is letting the fellow into this game. Wouldn’t that give you chilblains?”